


The Meta Testament.

by RT Fice (RT_Fice)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley may or may not be on The Boys' side, Dean & Sam become pets, Fix-It, Fun, Gabriel loves Twitter, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Metatron says he's God, Parody, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:46:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27507808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RT_Fice/pseuds/RT%20Fice
Summary: In this parody of Supernatural's Season 9.   Sam, Dean and Cas scheme with Crowley, Gabriel and characters they NEVER expected to defeat Heaven's new God, Metatron. There's a tornado, catnip mice, and a whole lot of Tweeting. Oh, and manatees.
Kudos: 2





	1. A Room Without a View.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> The Meta Testament takes place immediately after Season 9's "The Meta Fiction" episode. For my purposes I'm ignoring the Gadreel and Abaddon story lines.
> 
> This was originally written in 2014, before it was revealed that Chuck is really God and before a lot of characters were killed off. I haven't updated this fic to include those changes, and I won't. My Supernatural is as it was in 2014, at the end of Season 9.
> 
> I also haven't updated any historical changes since this was originally posted. For example, The Book Tower in Detroit was a wreck back then, but it's under renovation now.

* * *

"The First Blade locates _and_ opens the stairway to Heaven?" Dean scowled as he stepped over the debris littering the hall's floor.

Sam swept his flashlight's beam behind them. The sound had probably only been a startled rat.

The Book Tower was an abandoned skyscraper of slowly crumbling Gothic majesty, looming over the heart of Detroit. Ever since they'd broken in and ascended the cracked stairs strewn with fragments of broken plaster and shreds of peeled paint, Sam had felt the burlap-wrapped First Blade he gripped to his chest shuddering with urgency like a divining rod. There was an alarming absence of graffiti, trash, or any other evidence of human activity throughout the building. The place was thick with a spiritual miasma, which apparently warded off trespassers. Sam wondered how many uneasy ghosts occupied the dark, damp rooms.

Dean's impatience grew with every step. His agreeing that Sam should hold the Blade didn't mean he liked the idea. "Why didn't you know this before, Cas?"

"Because," said Castiel, his dry voice scraping the darkness, "before his," Cas hesitated to say the word, "death, Kevin only recently discovered and translated the lore of the First Blade and its relationship to the secret entrance to Heaven."

"Where did he find that lore again?" asked Dean. He knew. But his present irritation was goading him to be even more irritated.

Castiel muttered, "On the back of the Angel Tablet."

"Right." Dean snorted. "So we bust our humps getting the damn thing and no one thought to _turn it over and look at the back?_ "

"Kevin was stressed," said Sam, watching Dean carefully.

The door at the end of the hall was plain and wooden, with a tarnished brass knob and hinges. Judging by its state, no one had given it a thought for decades, if ever.

"So I asked the Blade to lead us to the hidden portal to Heaven and here we are." With his boot Dean shoved aside the detritus and explored the door with his flashlight. "Tell me why no angel has ever found this before?"

"The secret entrance to Heaven has been hidden in shadow for millennia," said Castiel, a bit defensively. "But _we_ have flashlights." He clicked his light off and on to demonstrate how dark it was without artificial light. Aiming it at the door he revealed a small, square, brass sign with black marks.

"Is that Enochian?" asked Sam.

Castiel nodded.

Dean grunted. "Well? You gonna translate or are we supposed to read your mind?"

"You aren't able to read my mind, Dean. Not unless the Blade is providing you with-"

"What's it _say_ , Cas?!"

The angel read aloud. "THE FIRST BLADE ALONE SHALL UNLOCK THIS HEAVEN." He paused. "P.S. DON'T LET THE CAT OUT."

"Cat?" said the Winchesters.

"Actually it says 'FELINE,' but in your vernacular it means domestic cat."

"I thought there were no animals in Heaven?" said Sam.

"There aren't. Animals have their _own_ Heaven." Cas paused again. "It's very loud."

Dean reached for the burlap. "Gimme."

"Dean…"

"What? You think I'm gonna Hulk out?"

Castiel shone his light on Dean. "I didn't know the Blade had that effect. How do your pants manage to not rip off when you suddenly grow ten times your normal size?"

"Shut up, Cas," said Dean.

"Are they stretchy denim?"

"You're getting grabby about the Blade," Sam said to Dean. "I see your hand twitch whenever we bring it out, even if it's wrapped."

Dean snorted a laugh. "You think I can't control myself? You don't trust me?"

"Yeah, absolutely I trust you…except when I don't. Listen, I don't trust the _Blade_. It's like it's trying to dig its claws in you."

"Aw, c'mon. Look." First raising his hands to show that he wasn't being grabby, Dean took the wrapped weapon from his brother as if it were only burlap and nothing more. He hesitated. His eyes crossed. He crouched as if he were in pain, clutching the parcel to his chest and petting it while he squeaked and drooled. "Oooo, precious! My _precious_!"

Sam grabbed the bundle while Dean laughed and wiped the spittle from his chin with the back of his hand. "It's not funny!"

"Dammit, Sammy, you think I'm gonna turn into some dehydrated hobbit wearing a loincloth!"

Castiel sighed. "Hobbits aren't real, Dean."

"I know, Cas, we've been over that."

"I firmly believe those stories were metaphors for Tolkien's experience in World War One and Two. Hobbits are a mixture of romanticized down-to-earth rural Englishmen and rabbits."

"Yes, Cas, we know," said Sam.

"So let's open the door and gank Metatron already." Dean held his hand out for the Blade. Sam unwrapped it but held the ancient weapon's grip with the burlap, glaring at it.

"If you don't trust me with it, you do it!" Dean snapped.

Castiel grabbed the burlap and the Blade.

"Whoa, hey!" cried Sam. "What might happen when an angel holds it?"

"It's what Cain used to kill Abel," said Dean. "Think it'd be off-limits to the Holy Host."

Castiel shined his light on the weapon and squinted, inspecting it with analytical curiosity. "I know. I remember Gabriel told me about it when it happened. 'Hey, guess what those crazy bipedal primates just learned how to do? Kill each other! Dad'll be so proud.' I believe that was when Gabriel invented sarcasm. It being new the rest of us didn't understand sarcasm. Gab sulked for days. Which he also invented."

"Well, it's pure evil," Sam emphasized. "Even if you don't have the Mark, maybe you shouldn't touch it."

"Don't worry, I came prepared." Cas reached into the right pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a small, damp square of white cloth.

"Handi-Wipes will protect you?" said Dean.

"They're anti-bacterial." The angel dropped the burlap from the knife and wiped the handle with the Handi-Wipe. He wadded it up and looked around.

"What are you looking for?" asked Sam.

"Waste basket."

"What?"

Castiel shone his light on a smaller sign bolted to the wall next to the door. "NO LITTERING. HAVE A NICE DAY. GOD."

Dean huffed. "Stuff it in your pocket!"

"I can't."

"Good god, _why not_?"

"My gum's in there."

"I've never seen you chew gum!"

"And I've never seen you use the bathroom. There are just some things you keep private." Castiel opened his hand. He muttered Latin over the scrunched cleaning cloth lying in his upturned palm. It burst into flames and dissipated in white smoke.

"Did you just exorcise a Handi-Wipe?" Sam asked incredulously.

"It was dirty."

"Unlock the door, Cas!" said Sam impatiently.

"Stick it in already!" Dean demanded.

"Isn't that a line from one of your _Casa Erotica_ videos?" asked Cas.

Dean grabbed the Blade, rammed it into the lock, and turned it with a grunt. Air gasped around the door, which was then outlined with pure white light. Dean put his shoulder to the wood, Sam pushed with both hands above him, and the door slowly inched inward.

The Winchesters shielded their eyes from the radiant light. Castiel stood in awe, his mouth parted, his eyebrows forming confusion. Dean tried to yank the Blade from the keyhole but it refused to budge. Of its own accord the door swung shut behind them, locking the Blade on the other side and beyond their reach.

Slowly, their eyes adjusted to the light. They heard music.

Sam tilted his head, listening. He laughed. "It's the Blues! I thought Heaven would be full of Lawrence Welk muzak!"

"Naw, that's Hell," said Dean. He shuddered from the memories.

The room was about the size of a garage or a finished basement, and resembled a composite of both. A string of LED fairy lights ran along the ceiling, illuminating walls plastered with posters from what looked to be every Blues, Rock and Metal band that had ever had a poster. There were three lamps that looked like they came directly from the '70s, with tall, beige cloth shades, one seated on the floor, one on a three-legged end table of questionable stability, and one on a large amplifier.

There, on two large, side by side, threadbare Persian carpets, Crowley, the King of Hell, in a black suit with a red lapel carnation, was energetically playing a drum set.

Next to him, sitting on folding chairs, were Gabriel the archangel, in jeans and a moss-green, long-sleeved t-shirt with a picture of a toadstool, which read _I'm a Fungi,_ his fingers nimbly manipulating the strings of an electric guitar, and a young black man in brown trousers, white shirt, and suspenders, strumming an acoustic guitar while a cigarette dangled from his lips.

The young man spotted them first. He stopped playing. The cigarette fell from his mouth. "Oh, that ain't right."

Crowley and Gabriel stopped in mid-motion. Their eyes widened.

"BOLLOCKS." With a snarl Crowley smashed the cymbal with a drumstick and spat, "Why didn't we kill you three when we had the chance?!"

"Seriously, Castiel?" sputtered Gabriel in a tone of betrayal. " _Seriously_?"

Castiel's mind was unable to process what he was seeing. "What...what is this?"

"This isn't Heaven?" asked Sam.

"It's Heaven," said Cas, "but not part I recognize."

Gabriel jumped up, put his guitar on the chair, and went to his brother angel, gripping his shoulders. "No, it's not Heaven. It's a hallucination. Turn around," he swiveled Castiel about-face, "go back out, go to sleep in one of those nice, cozy, bug-infested motels with suspiciously-stained mattresses the Winchesters are so fond of, and you'll wake up fresh in the morning."

"You're supposed to be dead!" said Sam.

"And so are you!" Gabriel snapped. "Several times over! But you're not and I'm not! Oopsy! Natural order of things circumvented again, so sad, bye bye!" He tried to herd the humans and the angel to the door.

Dean slipped past the archangel and approached the young man. Hi eyes were bright with reverence. "You're…you're Robert Johnson."

Robert Johnson grinned. "Busted, man."

"No, he's not." Crowley came around from behind the drum set and pointed a stick at Dean's head. "He's an illusion resulting from the many concussions you imbeciles have had over the years."

"Don't lie to the man," scolded Robert. "Y'all can't lie in Heaven."

Crowley grunted. "Read the fine print."

"I'm a big fan!" Dean stepped past the King of Hell and shook Johnson's hand.

Sam pulled an expression as if this was news to him. "No, you're not. You like Rock."

"My tastes are wide and varied," Dean stated, still shaking Robert's hand.

"No, they're not. You like Rock."

Dean released Robert, who rubbed his hand. "This man is the _father_ of Rock!" Beaming, he told the musician, "You should hear what Eric Clapton says about you."

"OK. Never heard of him." Robert querulously glanced at Gabriel.

"Not dead yet," said Gabe.

"That explains it."

Castiel stood in one place, slowly turning and taking in the room with an expression that indicated that his brain was working very hard. "This makes no sense."

"Exactly! Which is why you have to leave!" Gabriel again tried to manhandle his brother toward the door, but Castiel stepped sideways and Gabriel almost fell past him.

Sam walked toward a doorway on the opposite side of the room. Crowley quickly blocked his way. Looking down at him, Sam asked suspiciously, "What is this, a private annex for angels and visiting scum?"

"Looks like Heaven can only afford Goodwill," said Dean.

A loud click came from the larger room, followed by voices that sounded as if they were coming from a television.

Another, human voice called, "Dudes! _WordGirl's_ on!"

Everyone went stone silent. Crowley's upper lip twitched.

"Who is that?" Castiel demanded.

"Roaches," said Gabriel.

"Roaches who talk?" said Dean.

"It's Heaven. The bedbugs sing hallelujah and tap dance."

Sam and Dean headed for the other room with determination. With equal resolution Crowley planted himself in their path. "NO no NO!"

Robert Johnson retrieved his expired cigarette, stood up, and put it in his mouth. "Looks like y'all got some family business t'deal with. And I know better than to get in the middle of a," with both hands he formed air quotes, "'family discussion.'" He grinned at Sam and Dean. "Air quotes. Damn, wish they'd been around when I was walking the earth." To Crowley and Gabriel he said, "You want me, I'll be playing The Garden with Jimi Hendrix and Mozart." He explained to Sam and Dean, "Mozart's screwed up, but damn, he know how t'have a good time." He placed his hat on his head and vanished with a ripple of air.

Together, the Winchesters shoved aside the King of Hell.

The demon yelled at Gabriel, "You're a fucking archangel, _smite_ them already!"

"I can't, not here!"

"Try anyway!"

Flashing silver, his angel blade slid into Gabriel's hand. He lunged toward the humans. With a swift, determined and vengeful motion Sam spun and kicked directly into the archangel's crotch.

"Apologies to the meat suit," said Sam grimly.

Collapsing into a fetal position on the rug Gabriel whimpered, " _Fuuuck_ …"

"Not for a while," said Sam.

"That's for the Nutcracker Show, jerk!" Dean yelled over his shoulder. He asked Sam, "Why didn't we ever think of doing that before?"

They entered through the doorway. Intense light, warmer, more golden, momentarily blinded them.

Blinking rapidly, the Winchesters heard a voice, polished and professional, like an announcer's, say, " _Wordgirl_ is brought to you by viewers like you. Thank you."

The human voice they'd heard before chuckled and yelled, "Far out, it's a Dr. Two Brains episode! Crowley, Gab, Robert, get your asses in here!"

The Winchesters' eyes adjusted. Their arms dropped. They stared. Castiel came beside them and stiffened as if he'd been hit on the back of the head with a board.

Crowley, fuming, and Gabriel, wincing, entered the room.

It looked like the large apartment of a college dropout, circa 1971. The walls were exposed brick, fronted by shelves made of two by fours stretched across cement blocks and stuffed with books ranging from mass market paperbacks to classic MAD Magazines to leather-bound tomes. A massive 24 inch screen Magnavox TV console of heavy, dark wood squatted in the center of the room. It faced a wooden coffee table of the same chunky design holding down a horror of a burnt orange shag rug, and a sofa long and deep enough that two people could sleep on it, feet to feet, if the Mud Brown, Sunset Orange and Golden Yellow stripes didn't keep them up all night.

At one end of the couch was a wicker peacock chair with an Avocado Green seat cushion; at the opposite end was a mini-fridge which seconded as an end table and a La-Z-Boy recliner of the same disturbing green shade. The couch and the recliner were mercifully muted by Granny Square Afghans of autumn colors. Ferns and spider plants dangled in macramé plant-hangers before a huge window which didn't look out at anything, but only glowed with warm, golden light, like sunshine through frosted glass.

In the corner was a small kitchenette with slightly hysterical yellow walls, countertop, refrigerator, dishwasher and stove, and hulking dark wood cabinets. If you stared at the yellow, green and brown pattern of the linoleum floor it seemed to crawl. The only sane section of the room was a wet bar in the corner, composed of a dark wood island with two tall chairs, behind which was a black countertop with a small, steel sink. The glass-front cabinets behind it were full of liquor bottles, whose dust indicated they were rarely if ever touched.

The Winchesters had seen a lot of motels rooms which defied the progression of Time and Taste, but this place was aggressively contemptuous of it. The one thing they hadn't ever seen before was the impressive collection of pop culture images of Jesus that littered the place. From lamps which lit up The Lord's glowing red heart, to a clock with a crucified Jesus whose arms told the time, to a bobble-headed Christ holding a scroll which read _The Holy Land Experience, ORLANDO FL_ , peeking out from the middle of a fern, the number and variety were stunning, as if someone had been collecting these pieces for decades.

A man was lounging on the sofa. He wore a faded, light brown t-shirt with a yellow logo of _Monty Python's Life of Brian_. This clashed, though not too alarmingly, with his baggy madras shorts. Over this was a faded purple terry cloth bathrobe. His house slippers matched the robe.

The man's hair was light brown, slightly wavy and shoulder length. His beard and moustache were a bit darker. Holding an almost empty small glass Coca-Cola bottle, he grinned widely at Crowley and Gabriel. The grin collapsed when he saw the Winchesters and Castiel.

It was only then that the boys and the Angel of the Lord noticed the pale but unmistakable halo around the man's head.

"Oh," said the man on the couch. "This is so not cool."

"Lebowski?" Dean blurted.

"Aw, man, Jeff Bridges is dead!" Sam cried.

The man laughed. "Hey, they get it!" He paused and added quickly, "Wait, no, man, _I'm_ not Jeff Bridges. But the Dude thing, I was _totally_ going for that!"

Dean glanced at Castiel, who'd gone rigid. "Cas?"

Castiel dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

The couch man sighed. "Don't do that, man."

"Cas, are you OK?" Sam asked.

The angel's voice was gravelly. "Kneel."

"What?"

"Get on your knees before Him!" Castiel commanded.

Dean snickered. "Dude, that could be totally misconstrued."

"This is no time for your blasphemous humor!"

"My what now?" Dean tensed. "Excuse me?"

The man rose from the couch. "Castiel, man, not good. It's OK. You know, like, I don't care about that crap." He set the Coke bottle on the coffee table next to a copy of _Sky & Telescope_ magazine. "Hey, Cas man, you missed me when I was waving to you in Ixtapa! You were, like, doing that thing you do, looking to get stoned…NO, no, looking for a stone! Or something? What the hell were you doing?"

Castiel didn't look up as he whispered, "You waved?"

"Yeah! I appeared on your tortilla, man. Well, it wasn't _you_ r tortilla, you don't eat tortillas, it was the tortilla of the guy on the stool next to you at the diner counter. You must've had some tough shit going down, you didn't even notice. But the waitress did. I hung around on the tortilla till she sold her story to the tabloids for enough money to send her kids to college." The man nodded enthusiastically. "I felt pretty good about that."

Sam broke his stare with a blink. Quietly he said, "Cas…this isn't…"

Dean beat him to it. "Jesus."

The man looked at Dean. "Yeah? Oh, wait, do you mean Jesus as in me or jesus as in generic swear word when fuck's too strong but shit's too scatological?"

Cas stuttered, "But…but…I don't...what…"

Gabriel, fully recovered, rolled his eyes. "Someone smack him, his needle's stuck."

"No one under the human age of forty-five understands that reference," Crowley reminded the archangel. "Get with the times."

"Oh. Right." Gabriel clasped his hands in front of him and said to the Winchesters, "Once upon a time there were these things called records. You played them with something called a needle, which was placed in a groove, and sometimes the needle would stick and repeatedly-"

"They're still around, shut up," snapped Dean.

Castiel continued to babble. "This doesn't…how are you…but…"

"Oh, I'll do it." Crowley soundly whacked Castiel's head.

"How is this possible?!" Cas cried to the bearded man.

"Hey, siddown." Jesus demonstrated by sitting back down on the couch. "We got ice cold beer, nachos, cheese doodles, hummus…you Buddhists? I got vegan stuff in the fridge."

Dean's eyes narrowed. His smile was dubious. "Sorry, but…you don't look like…like…"

"Like a two thousand year old Jewish carpenter," said Sam.

Jesus' head bobbed in agreement. "I can dig your doubt. Peter was the same way. Y'know, _I_ told him _not_ to walk on that water. They rewrote it. C'mon, Castiel, stand up, you're embarrassing the crap outta me, man."

Sam breathed in astonishment, "Jesus Christ."

"Don't take his name in vain," barked Castiel as he rose to his feet.

"He's not. C'mon, man, lighten up." Jesus asked, "What's that mean anyway? How do people take my name in vain? Does it mean vain as in vanity, because that makes no sense whatsoever, or is it vain like, uh…" He snapped his fingers as he grappled. "What's that word, it means vain but it's not vain…Where's the dictionary?"

"You're Jesus Christ, the Son of God," Sam stated.

The man's smile was reserved. "I'm Jesus, youngest son of God and a very sweet fifteen year old Jewish girl who was already betrothed to a very understanding but totally confused older Jewish dude who was my step-dad."

They stood there, silent, not moving, awash in awkwardness.

Jesus startled them by clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "So, the Lebowski thing, yeah, y'know, I was born into my own real meat suit -hate that term. Isn't that just the creepiest shit? Seriously?—anyway, so it got pretty fucked up on earth, blah blah blah, been to the theme park, got the t-shirt and the shot glass, so, yeah, it got all healed and stuff after I got out of Purgatory –." He stopped and looked at Dean. "Hey, you've been to Purgatory."

Dean's surprise that this man knew that didn't stop him from nodding.

"Sucks, doesn't it? Whose idea was _that_?" He stopped and grimaced. "Oh. Right. Anyway, man, I wanted a new look. I don't have much juice, being all constrained here in my," his forefingers made air quotes, "'room', but I got enough to make a few alterations. I spent about two hundred years as a woman. That was fucking amazing! Except every 28 days. OK, that's on nature, not Dad, Dad's sadistic streak is more, well, Purgatory."

Jesus dropped on his hands and knees on the shag rug and dug a pile of papers from under the coffee table. He hauled himself back on the couch and spread the papers on the table, moving aside a citrus-scented Jesus candle. "I was going through all the images of me that've been created, all the way back to, like, ancient Greece, like a catalog, y'know, trying to pick a look." He laughed and showed them a copy of _The Watch Tower_. "Check this out! Oh, c'mon, everybody siddown. It's so cool to have new people to talk to! Crowley, stop looking like you're gonna shit a brick."

In a fog, Sam and Dean sat on the couch on either side of Jesus. Gabriel glared at Crowley and took the La-Z-Boy. The demon sneered ruefully and sat in the wicker chair.

Castiel stood where he was, staring at Jesus.

Jesus opened _The Watch Tower_ and indicated an illustration bright with primary colors. "Look at that. Can you believe it? That's GQ Jesus, cats. Look at that hair! It's fricking _layered_ , man! Where were there hair salons in Jerusalem? Cas, lookit this, man, you remember those days, isn't this some crazy shit?"

The Angel of the Lord remained immobile.

Crowley leaned forward, peering at Castiel. "He's not blinking."

"He looks like a monitor lizard in a trench coat," said Gabriel.

"So _any_ way," Jesus continued, "I used to do a kinda Ted Neely look - y'know, from the 1971 movie of the _Jesus Christ Superstar_ musical - that, by the way, is the closest t'how it really went down. 'Cept we didn't do all the singing and dancing." He lowered his voice intimately. "You're the only people I'm telling this, but _Superstar_ is actually divine revelation. I appeared to Andrew Lloyd Webber. Well, he was actually high on something, or maybe he was drunk, but he thought it was all his idea."

"Did you appear to Tim Rice?" Gab asked.

"Shit, Tim Rice thinks he _is_ God."

"This is all really fascinating, uh, _Jesus,"_ said Dean, "but could you explain –"

Jesus, having an audience, had too much momentum to stop. "Dig, yeah, but the look, I saw 'The Big Lebowski' on the tube – I get TV here in Heaven, every channel on earth, including cable, which isn't as cool as it might sound- and went, yeah, YEAH. Skip the booze and the bowling and that was what I was after!" With a satisfied smile he leaned back in the couch and spread his hands. "I decided to abide, man. I'm the Jesus. His Jesusness, Jeser, El Jesuerino. And The Jesus abides, man."

Sam's voice was tight. "No." His jaws muscles clenched. "No, he doesn't! He shouldn't!"

Jesus' eyes widened. "Whoa."

"Sam!" said Castiel with alarm.

Sam jabbed his finger at the bearded man. "The world is full of poverty and misery and," his hands flailed with frustration, then made fists to restrain themselves, "fucking _monsters_ , and you're an old hippie watching –" He pointed at the colorful animation on the television. "What is that?!"

" _Wordgirl_." Gabriel was enthusiastic. "Public television kids cartoon."

"Great show, man." Jesus scooted forward and watched the screen. "The main character's a little girl of color, how often do you see that, right? She's from the planet Lexicon –get it, Lexicon?- so she has this indomitable vocabulary, it's to get kids excited about words, y'know. She fights these far out villains like Doctor Two Brains, who was a brilliant scientist and her friend until he melded with a vicious lab rat named Squeaky—"

"You're watching educational children's cartoons while the world is suffering!" yelled Sam.

Jesus nodded empathically. "That's good, man, that's righteous anger and you're _owning_ it!"

Gabriel sunk into his chair. "Oy, this is so not good."

Dean shot up from the couch and rounded on the archangel. "This one of your tricks! One of your goddamn set-ups!"

"Yeah, I did it just for _you_ , Deanarino, because, as always, you Winchesters are the center of the fucking universe. Pluheeze!"

"Who is this guy really?!" With both hands Dean grabbed Gabriel's shirt and hauled him to his feet. "Tell us!"

"He's my brother."

"I said I want the truth!" Dean slapped the angel, whipping his head to one side.

"He's my father," said Gabe. Dean slapped his other cheek. "He's my brother." Slap! "My father." Slap! "My brother." Slap! "He's my brother AND my father!"

Crowley fished around the nut bowl on the mini fridge. "And you think _you_ have a dysfunctional family, Squirrel." He popped a cashew into his mouth.

"He's real, Dean." Castiel's voice creaked. "He's Jesus."

Dean pushed Gabriel away from him.

"Dudes, I am so not cool with the whole violence thing." Jesus' halo darkened slightly. "You OK, Gabe?"

Gabriel rubbed his right cheek and glared at Dean. "It beats a sharp stick in the gut."

Sam grabbed the TV remote from the coffee table, clicked off the set, and tossed the remote behind the couch. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

"Mind your manners," Castiel ordered.

Jesus lifted his hands to signal that everything was fine. "Hey, if anyone's earned the right to righteous anger it's these cats."

"Where were you when Lucifer was freed?" Sam demanded. "Where were you when angels were killing innocent people? Where have you been?!"

"Here, man," said Jesus quietly. "Right here."

"This whole time?" asked Dean. "Over two thousand years?"

The bearded man sighed, ran his hand over his face and leaned back. With his house-slippered foot he indicated the mini-fridge. "Siddown, have a brew."

"I don't feel like drinking," said Dean as he sat.

"I want a clear head to hear this excuse," said Sam.

"Like, it's not an _excuse_ , it's an explanation. Cas, could you unstiffen enough to sit down?"

Cas plopped like lead into a bean bag chair facing the couch. He sank until his knees were level with his squinting eyes.

"What is this place?" Sam asked Jesus.

"My Heaven. My," he formed air quotes again, "'room.' My prison."

"Prison?" said Dean. "Who would have the power to imprison the Son of God?"

"Who do you think?" said Gabriel with exasperation.

"Let's go slowly on this, Gabe," said Jesus. "There's a lotta myth-busting gotta go down."

"What are these two doing here?" Dean jutted his chin to indicate Gabriel and Crowley. "The King of Hell, of all non-people, jamming in Jesus' personal Heaven? And _that_ asshole."

"Right backatcha," said Gabriel with a curled lip.

"You killed me over a hundred times, _dude_."

Jesus patted the air to indicate that tempers should lower. "All will be revealed, OK?"

"I'm not turning my back on those two."

"They can't hurt you here. They can't hurt anybody here, not even each other. This is a neutral zone. That's kinda the point why they hang around. At least have an ice cold Coke." Jesus reached around Sam and yanked open the mini fridge. "Shit, we're out." He leaned back again and glanced at Gabriel. "Are they with the order?"

"Yeah, they're coming."

Jesus rubbed his face with his hands. "Here's the deal. The part that's left out, like, from everywhere." He pointed at Castiel. " _He_ doesn't even know. None of the angels do, man, arch or otherwise. _He_ ," this time his finger indicated Gabriel, "only knows I'm here 'cause I took him in after half-brother Lucifer skewered him." Jesus shrugged. "I had enough healing mojo to patch him up."

"Lucifer's..?" Sam hesitated. "Your half-brother?"

"Well, yeah. Think about it. No one ever thinks about that, right? I mean, we've got the same Dad." Jesus drained the last of his Coke. "Y'know, that's really why Lucifer lost it. He wasn't jealous just 'cuz Dad told him to bow down to humans. He was pissed because they got all the good stuff. Y'know, taste, touch, smell, love, lust, hatred, sorrow. He thought, 'What the hell? We're His first kids, why didn't He give that to us? All we got was obedience, jealousy, pettiness, arrogance and submission.'"

Gabriel twisted the cap off a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. "He's right." He poured a tablespoon of sugar and three aspirin into the bottle, capped it, shook it, and gulped down a third of it. He glared at Sam. " _What?_ I've got a headache!"

"But, it wasn't like that," Castiel politely insisted.

"Good little soldier." Crowley chewed on a pistachio. "Daddy can never be wrong."

"Shut up, Crowley." Gabriel's voice was taut. "Don't pretend to understand my family."

"Heh. I'd like to see you make me."

"I could make you and not pay you, beeyotch."

"Stop stretching your wingspan, luv, no one's impressed."

"At least I didn't have to sell _my_ soul to _measure up._ How's the equipment on the current vessel? I've heard that literary agents are pricks, but how much of one is he?"

"If you're so curious, angel cakes, I can drop trou."

"See, _this_ is why I hang with these guys," said Jesus. "You think the apostles ever had conversations like this?"

"Crowley," said Dean, "you don't want to get in a comparison match with him."

"What? Why?"

"You'd lose," said Sam.

"Big time," said Dean. "So to speak."

"How would _you_ know?" asked Crowley indignantly.

"Aww!" Gabriel smirked. "You guys watched all of _Casa Erotica_!"

"No!" said Dean.

"Not together!" Sam reddened. "I mean, no, just no!"

Dean pointed at Sam. "He watched it and told me about it!"

"Dude, you so said that you watched it too!"

Crowley dusted a pistachio crumb from his lapel. "Well, you haven't seen me, boys. I don't go shopping for a vessel unless it has all the proper accessories."

"I'm so happy for you," said Sam. "So how about we stop talking about the _pricks_ in the room and get the answers to some questions?" His expression was no nonsense. "Jesus, God _imprisoned_ you, is that what you're saying?"

Jesus ran his hand through his hair. He sighed. "You ever heard 'for the lord thy god is a jealous god among you, lest the anger of the lord thy god be kindled against thee, and destroy thee from off the face of the earth?' Huh? Shit, at least _your_ dad did things with you! He _wanted_ you guys to follow him in the family business."

With discomfort Gabriel said, "Lord, you shouldn't talk about this in front of –"

"Never tell the family secrets, right Gab? Aw, man! I thought you above all people would dig were I'm coming from! You _rebelled_ , man. You ever realize that in Dad's opinion your rebellion wasn't that much different from Lucifer's? Ever thought what He'd've done if He was around when you did it?"

"If He'd been around I wouldn't have done it." Gabriel's voice was quiet but insistent. "Our family would've been…we would've been _happy_."

Jesus leaned forward. "You're saying that? Say it again with a straight face."

"Awww," said Crowley. "Gabby misses Daddy. I'd vomit but it'd be redundant."

"I am still an archangel," said Gabriel sweetly, "and even though I can't touch you here, I can fry you like bacon outside."

"Cool it, OK?" Jesus indicated Crowley and his smirk. "This is why I let this dude visit. It's family tradition, y'know? Dad used to hang with the previous Kings of Hell. You've heard of God and Satan's bet over Job, right? Dad only did it because - and this is _me_ saying this, He'd deny it - He got bored. He couldn't talk to His fave son Lucifer anymore, for obvious, y'know, _reasons_ , and He wanted somebody who'd challenge Him. The archangels weren't gonna tell Him stuff they knew He didn't want to hear. But a person needs that, to keep your head, y'know, straight."

Jesus indicated Crowley. "I invited him because I need some plain, honest cynicism to cut through the lies. He's got no power here, and if he did try something, well, like, I _am_ the Son of God." He wiggled his fingers. "Really sucks to have power and no way to use it locked in my 'apartment.'"

Jesus looked at Gabriel. "I talk to you, only you, of all of Dad's First Born, because you chose the humans, man. So just because you're bathed in my fucking glory don't be a hypocrite to protect my feelings. I've _got_ no more feelings to be hurt when it comes to the Big Guy."

Jesus stood up. He paced a bit, and then turned to the Winchesters. "Like, once upon a time Dad got really insecure. He wanted all humans to love him. But a lot of them were loving other gods, y'know? As far as Dad was concerned, humans were being insufficiently grateful. So He came up with Hell. And then He came up with me. Hell didn't exist until I did."

Castiel scowled with confusion. "But Lucifer was sent to—"

"In the old, old days, Hell was just Dad's Time Out room for disobedient angels," said Jesus. "Humans didn't go there. After death, human souls got to choose. Wanna be reborn but you don't get to choose as what? Sure I'll take a chance, give the ol' Wheel of Karma a spin. Want to explore the universe as a wave of sentient particles? Shit yeah, sounds great. Want to just reenter the circle of life as organic material that other organic material feeds on? Cool, I'm weary, gimme that. There was no judgment."

Jesus sat on the edge of the TV and crossed his arms. "Well, Dad didn't like that. Dad was all about judgment. Dad didn't want humans to have options other than you love me and do what I say and you go to a nice place or you disobey and you suffer forever."

"But, that's not how I remember it," Castiel protested lightly.

"Cas, love ya, bro, but do you really think you were in the loop on everything? Did _you_ even know, Gabe?"

Gabriel's cheek twitched. "No. No, this is all news to me."

"Yeah. Dad had no reason to fill any of you in on His plans." Jesus looked at the Winchesters and continued, "So what do you need if you're gonna threaten your kids with punishment? A way to escape punishment. That was _me_. First create Damnation. Then knock up a teenage human girl with a demi-human whose blood sacrifice will ensure everyone a Get Out of Hell Free pass if they pledge their eternal love to Him." He pointed at himself. "To _me_. See, _that_ part Jealous Dad didn't think through."

"But why are you stuck here?" asked Sam.

"Because after my resurrection Dad didn't need _me_ anymore. He had the Brand. Jesus Christ Inc. He didn't need the spokesman. Shit, there were plenty of spokesmen on Earth, doing all Dad's work for him. The apostles were the CEOs of Jesus Christ Inc., and Dad sent them to out with brochures and pamphlets and well-edited sales pitches, telling them whoever sells the most gets the bigger section in a thing called the New Testament." Jesus sat cross-legged on the shag rug. "So they sold, man. It was Glengarry Glenn Christ. But me…I'd inherited the irritating primate traits of curiosity and asking questions."

"I don't understand," said Castiel.

"Dad wasn't used to being questioned, not in Heaven. Because cats like him," Jesus pointed to Castiel, "never, ever question anything. Am I right?"

"But—"

"But you," Jesus looked at Gabriel, "you're the exception. You're _the_ exception. Well, you and big brother Lucifer. You got that in common."

Gabriel tensed. "What do I have in common with _him?_ "

"Lucifer questioned, so Dad gave him the eternal spanking, and, admit it, man, you didn't see it as just. You started being unhappy even then, because you _thought about_ stuff. Like maybe Dad went too far with Lucifer. The other archangels, they didn't _want_ to think." To Castiel he said, "But you've changed, man. You question now."

Cas replied, firmly, "I have never questioned God."

"Denial ain't just a river." Jesus leaned back on his elbows. "The thing was, the threat of the eternal spanking didn't bring out the better angels of humans' nature like Dad thought it would. Oh, humans _wanted_ Hell! Because they all wanted to have box seats with _me_ in Heaven, watching everyone they ever hated burn. They imagined JumboTron screens showing their 5th grade math teacher burning, the friend in college who dumped them burning, the boss who didn't give them a raise burning, the waitress who didn't bring their menus fast enough burning. Because they all believe _they're_ not going to burn. Ever notice that? How many people you know who claim to believe in me _really_ worry that they're going to Hell? No, they think they're saved with a big ass capital S, and are going to Paradise because they have a personal relationship with Jesus. Fuck! Like I'd so much as have coffee with those assholes!"

"So what happened?" Sam asked.

"I'll tell you, _verbatim_ , man. After I came home from Camp Purgatory, all squeaky clean and shiny, I was like, 'OK Dad, what do you want me to do now?'

'Oh, I don't know. What do you want to do, son?'

'Well shit, Dad, I've spent my whole life prepping for the ultimate sacrifice. When you know you're gonna die horribly it's hard to plan for the future.'

'Well son, just wait around for the Apocalypse. After that you judge all the souls and rule earth for a thousand years.'

'OK, cool, Dad. What do I do while I'm ruling Earth?'

'What do you mean? You'll rule Earth. What's difficult to understand about that?'

'Seriously, Father, what does ruling earth involve?'

'You'll sit on your golden throne at my right hand and look beatific. What the hell do you think?'

'But with no sin, no suffering, no death, shit, no one ever questioning anything ever again…What's the point of ruling?'

'You'll oversee the souls living for all eternity in ecstatic bliss.'

'Really? No other emotion except ecstatic bliss?'

'What's wrong with that? '

'Won't that get boring after, I dunno, a decade or two?'

'They won't get bored! Ecstatic bliss has no room for boredom!'

'So, are the souls gonna be blissful willingly, or because they drank some kinda Paradize Kool-Aid?'

'They'll be blissful because they're free of pain and want!'

'Are they just gonna stand around grinning at us in our Glory or will they have lives?'

'Lives?'

'Hobbies, amusements, stimuli for creativity, book clubs?'

'They won't need those.'

'But isn't Heaven doing what you love?'

'I suppose!'

'So some people love being creative. What kind of books and art and music will people make when there's no suffering or unhappiness? Oh. Right. I've read those books. They sell them in the bookstores named after me. You ever read one? Gab brought me one. By the third chapter I wanted someone to crucify me again.'

'I don't read.'

"OK. What do you do in your copious spare time? You don't really have your eye on every sparrow, do you?'

'What's a sparrow?'

'You don't listen to the prayers? Because if you don't you really should. Those poor bastards are suffering down there.'

"Dad was looking seriously pissed by then. He said, 'They're praying to _you_. Not _me_.'

'Well, that was _your_ idea, wasn't it? '

"He looked even more pissed." Jesus sat up cross-legged again, and rested his elbows on his knees. "You gotta remember, I'd only just met my real father. All that time I was on Earth, He didn't visit, didn't send birthday cards, nothing, man. I didn't know this guy, I didn't know His limits. So the last thing I said to Him was, 'If I'm gonna be at your right hand, what are _you_ going to be doing?'

"Dad got up and said, 'I'm going out.'

'Where, Dad?'

'I _said_ I'm going _out_!'

"I tried to follow, but…the way out was shut to me. I was stuck, here. It was pretty much 'destroy thee from off the face of the earth,' since I can't go back. And He hasn't been back since, not to Heaven or Earth."

"You drove out God?" said Sam.

"Wow," said Dean. "God went to the 7-11 for cigs and a 6 pack."

Gabriel quickly wiped a finger under his eyes. His mouth was grim.

Jesus sighed. "Gabe, Cas… I'm sorry."

Gabriel straightened and set his jaw. "Don't be. I always suspected."

Castiel looked like a puppy staring out a window as his owner disappears from sight. His dry voice whispered, "No goodbye?"

Pounding rattled a door which had suddenly appeared in the living room wall. The Winchesters and Castiel were on their feet, weapons drawn.

"Be cool!" Jesus raised his hands for calm. "It's only—"

The door flung open and immediately shut behind the person who entered. He was brown, lean and wiry as a whippet, dressed in dusty, worn beige jeans, a yellow tank top with several small rips in it, leather sandals and a leather fringed vest. His wide brown eyes and mop of curly dark brown hair were wild. He held a stack of four pizza boxes. His manic grin was enough to make anyone reach for their phone.

"I GOT PIZZA!" He moved with the enthusiasm and energy of an entire children's birthday party cranked on sugar and caffeine. He dropped the boxes on the coffee table. "BEST FMEEKING PIZZA IN THE WORLD!" The man stopped and stared at Castiel, then threw his arms wide. "CAS!"

"Oh no," the angel groaned.

The man ran over to the bean bag chair, his arms still open wide. "CASTIEL!"

Cas tried to sink deeper into the bag. "Hello, Simon. It's been a long –OOF!"

The man had reached down, yanked the angel to his feet, and wrapped his thin, muscular arms around his chest with the power of steel cables. He bounced Castiel as he hugged him. "BEST FMEEKING ANGEL EVER!"

"Simon?" said Dean.

"As in, the Zealot?" asked Sam.

Simon the Zealot's eyes popped open at the sound of his name. He released Castiel, who fell backward into the bean bag, and whipped around to grin maniacally at the Winchesters. "PEOPLE! PEOPLE IN HEAVEN! LIVE PEOPLE! I FMEEKING LOVE PEOPLE! THEY'RE SO GODDAMN—"

"Peopleish," said Crowley, watching it all with detached and partially amused boredom. This quickly changed to alarm when Simon whipped about again and saw him in the wicker chair.

"CROWLEY!"

" _No_ , Simon!"

"GODDAMN KING OF HELL!"

"Do _not_ touch me or I swear—"

Crowley was grabbed out of his seat. Simon encased him in a hug, strapping his arms to his side while he was bounced up and down.

"BEST FMEEKING DEMON EVER!"

Jesus interrupted. "Hey, Simon, you forgot the Cokes." With his hands he demonstrated what size they should be. "The little six ounce glass bottles? Ice cold?"

"SHIT!" Simon grabbed his head in shock, releasing Crowley, who dropped to the floor. "I FORGOT! NOT COOL! GOTTA GO TO MISSISSIPPI! BEST FMEEKING LITTLE COLD COKES EVER! I'LL BE RIGHT BACK!"

With a rapid goodbye wave he launched himself out the door and slammed it behind him. It vanished instantly.

"I think he and John the Baptist did too many 'shrooms in the wilderness," said Jesus.

Standing, Castiel approached Jesus. "Lord, why are you telling all this to the King of Hell? To the humans?"

Dean huffed. "Oh, so we're 'the humans' now? Huh."

"Class always comes out," said Sam. "Bet he wouldn't let you marry his sister."

Castiel scowled with frustration. "Angels don't have sisters. Angels are genderless. We only take on gender when we enter a vessel. And we don't marry."

Jesus jerked his thumb at Castiel and said to the Winchesters, "Try two thousand years of that kinda talk, man. You wonder why I'm so happy to see you?"

"Cas has a point," said Dean. "Why haven't you told this to anyone else? To the world?"

"I want to!" Jesus cried. "But how do you think people would take it? Hey, Jesus can't come out and play right now, Daddy grounded him! "

Crowley finished straightening his suit and tie as he addressed the boys. "You forget, the rest of you meat sticks aren't aware that there _is_ a problem. They're sucked into the centers of their banal little lives and think hurricanes are caused by God's wrath on gays but strange lights plummeting from the skies are caused by space trash burning in the atmosphere." He chuckled contemptuously. "If the groveling worms knew what the hunters know you'd be heroes instead of pathetic vagrants."

"See?" said Jesus. "This is why I let him hang around. "

Crowley continued as he walked over to a wet bar. "And if they knew that Jesus lives, hallelujah, what good would it do them? Eh? You already have a problem with Christian fundamentalists trying to turn the world into a Disney version of _A Handmaid's Tale_ – that's the version of the novel with everything _except_ the sex. Let's say they have _proof_ that Jesus does actually exist but He's not coming to Earth right now. They'd think, _oh_ , it's because we haven't tidied up enough. Very well, let's scourge this place of everyone we don't like, who of course _Jesus_ doesn't like, and _then_ He'll show up. First they'll get rid of all the non-Christians, then the Protestants and the Catholics and the Baptists will go after the Amish and the Hutterites before turning on each other." He set out a crystal tumbler and filled it with cognac. "Me, I'm rooting for the snake handlers." He downed the liquor.

"What he said," Jesus agreed.

Gently imploring, Castiel said, "Lord, perhaps it was all just a misunderstanding. Perhaps our Father now regrets—"

"No, Cas." Gabriel's vehement interruption startled them all. "No, fucking **_no_**."

Everyone stared as Gabriel gripped the arms of his chair and stood up. His eyes were shining with damp and anger.

As he faced them Gabriel's laugh was a short, bitter bark. "You know what we all need up here? Individual copies of family psychologist John Bradshaw's _Homecoming_. Because we are in some goddamn dysfunctional denial about how we really, I mean _really_ , feel about the old man."

"Brother, don't." Castiel's words were a warning and a plea.

"Oh, screw it, Castiel!" Gabriel pointed at the Winchesters. "If nothing else, these chuckleheads got _my_ head straight about why I ran in the first place. I'm the kid under the blankets with the pillow clamped over his ears, singing la la la while the family yells at each other over who betrayed who, while never, _ever_ blaming the person who _should_ be blamed."

"Our Father, you mean?" said Cas.

"Who else?"

"Lucifer rebelled." Castiel's face was swept with sadness. "It broke Father's heart—"

"Did it? But _why_ did it? Yeah, Big Bro rebelled, and that's on him. But _why_ did he rebel? Because he was jealous? Maybe it was because once upon a time Dad called him the Light of the Morning and then turned around and said, oh, wait, you're no longer special. See that disgusting lump of flesh and hair and shit picking gunk out of its nose and eating it? _That'_ s better than you. How would that make _you_ feel?"

"Was it really that harsh?" asked Sam.

"You ever go to Sunday School, Sammy?" asked Gabriel.

"No."

" _Good_." Gabriel's voice soured. "Then you won't be too disillusioned. Here's one of my _special_ days with Pops. He takes me down to Earth, points to some old fart and tells me –no, _orders_ me – to tell the guy that he has to kill his only son. Yup, I have to instruct him to truss up his kid, throw him on an altar, and slit his throat. And I was supposed to watch! Some fun, huh? So, me being an obedient son who loves his Dad, I tell this guy. Without a question, without a _second's_ hesitation, the guy ties up his terrified kid and sticks him on an altar on a lonely mountain in the middle of nowhere! The kid's struggling and begging, "Why, father?! What did I do? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" His father's got a face like a rock. He pulls out a knife, grabs his son's hair, and yanks back his head to expose his throat. Then, **_then_** , at the _very last_ moment, my Dad tells me to tell the guy to stop." The archangel shut his eyes while his nostrils flared. "My Dad _loved_ the dad who was willing to bleed his son to death. How do you think this makes a person, even an archangel, feel about his father? I looked at Him grinning with pride at Abraham and all I could think was, 'So, are you ever going to order someone to kill _me_ , Dad?'"

They were silent.

"Y'know," said Dean, "I think it's time for group to take a break for some pizza."

They sat glumly and stared at the pizza boxes.

Crowley shook his head and refilled his glass. "Speaking as the only father in the room, I can't see what you're all so bloody upset about. I wanted to slit Gavin's throat god knows how many times. So to speak."

"Shut up, Crowley," everyone said.

The door suddenly formed in the living room wall. Simon the Zealot popped in, holding two wooden carriers of six ounce glass bottles of Coca-Cola, frosted with ice.

"I GOT COKES!"

"Get lost, Simon," everyone said.

"COOL WITH THAT!" He set the Cokes on the floor, twisted the cap off one, took a long swig, and dove out the door, which closed and vanished.

Dean broke the silence. "So what is it with dads?"

They mumbled and shrugged.

"Let me enlighten you," began Crowley as he came around from behind the bar.

"Yes please," said Dean sarcastically, "since your kid hated you so much that a couple hundred years later his ghost ratted on you."

"As the t-shirt says," said Sam, "any prick can be a father." He looked at Castiel, Gabriel and Crowley. "I never thought of it before, but you guys never had a mother, did you?"

Crowley sneered and swirled the cognac in his tumbler. "Huh. Please. My mother was a witch. Which I don't say _instead_ of the word bitch because she one of those as well."

"So you have an excuse for being evil?"

Crowley coughed in mid sip. He chuckled at Sam. "I'm sorry, Moose, were you hoping to hear me whimper about how my pestilential upbringing turned me to the dark side? If only I'd had the love of a good mummy I wouldn't have ended up as King of Hell?" He walked behind the couch, leaned his forearms on its back, and grinned maliciously at the taller of the Winchesters. "I _love_ being King of Hell. Let me emphasize: Loooove. Sure, with the title comes the occasional spot of torture and addiction and ruining my best Savile Row suits with the guts of minions and humans and demons, oh my. But I've never, _ever_ , regretted it."

"You ever met your mother in Hell?" Dean asked.

"Who do you think scrubs the toilets?"

"Ugh," they all said.

"With her _tongue_."

"Ack!" they all said.

Castiel spoke quietly as he realized something for the first time. "Our Father was our mother."

"I don't mean just the female who biologically gave birth to you." Sam searched to identify what he meant. "I mean…there's a different feeling from a mother. And a mother doesn't have to be blood related. Or even a woman, I guess. It's..a different approach to love.."

Castiel squinted querulously. "But you don't remember your mother."

Sam's mouth opened, paused, then shut. He looked lost.

"He's right." Dean clasped his hands between his knees, his thumbs rubbing together contemplatively. "You get something different from your mother."

"Yes," said Crowley. "They don't whip you with chains _quite_ as hard as daddies."

Dean snapped over his shoulder at Crowley, "Yeah, some moms are evil. We get that." To everyone else he added, "Maybe daughters would say I only think this way because I'm a guy. But mothers are—"

Jesus stood up, gesturing for the conversation to stop. "Uh, let's not talk about moms here, dudes."

"What?" said Sam. "Why?"

Lowering his voice, Jesus explained, "Because this Heaven of mine is responsive to my thoughts. Like, I was hungry and Simon showed up to go get pizza. If you talk about-"

The door reappeared in the living room wall.

Jesus sighed and made a _Look what you've done_ gesture to indicate the door.


	2. Mommys Dearest.

Bright light poured in as the door opened, along with the sound of muzak and hundreds of excited voices of all ages. Two silhouetted figures entered, but the larger of the two, behind the other, seemed to have trouble getting through the doorway.

A pretty young woman, a teenager really, cried triumphantly, "Jesus! We got you underwear! "

Her wavy, dark brown hair was pulled back into a pink Scrunchy. Her skin was brown, her large, gleeful eyes dark brown. She wore a periwinkle blue sweatsuit set and blue and white sneakers. Her sweatshirt was embroidered with a loon floating on a lake above the words _Love from Minnesota._ She held up a fancy shopping bag, silvery gray with a gray string handle and the word NORDSTROM in white.

Stuck in the door by his burdens was a man approximately twenty years older than the girl. He held a shopping bag in each hand, one over each shoulder, and a large, beribboned box that read _See's Candies_ under his right arm. His curly brown hair was graying, his beard was dusted white. He had the large, dark brown eyes of a weary beagle. He wore brown corduroys and a brown sweatshirt brightly embroidered with fireworks, a Ferris Wheel and the words _Mall of America._

The young woman and the man had small, quietly glowing halos.

Sam and Dean had spent enough time in Minnesota to recognize the stereotypical Range accent as the young woman added, "They're purple. You like purple, dear? And they're boxers."

Jesus muttered, "Mom. Step-Dad."

"Who?" blurted Sam and Dean.

"Don't bother to hold the door for me, I'm just your foster father," said the man in monotone.

Jesus hurried to the door and held it open. As the man dislodged himself and shuffled into the room everyone caught a glimpse of a balcony hall overlooking what appeared to be a huge indoor amusement park. The door shut and vanished.

Jesus took the NORDSTROM bag the young woman held out for him. He picked at the gray tissue paper stuffed inside it. "Aww, Mom! You're not supposed to mix with—"

"I'm not supposed to walk the Earth, yah, I know." She removed a packet of purple Jockeys, opened it and, much to the chagrin of Jesus and everyone else in the room, she held a pair of the boxers in front of Jesus' Madras shorts for size. "What am I supposed to do in Heaven, what with the angels having their little disagreements? Hide here forever? Look!" She lifted her arms and turned, holding the briefs in her hand like a banner. "I blended in! I even changed my voice to the right kind of regional English!"

"How did you pay for this?"

"The good Lord provides."

"She stands next to an ATM and it spits out money," replied the older man in monotone.

"Mom!"

"The one thing I can say for your Heavenly Father, He always provided child support."

"Meaning me," said the older man flatly. "I'm the child support."

"Joseph," the girl scolded affectionately.

"So what was I for, but child support?" Joseph clunked down the candies on top of the pizza boxes, apparently oblivious to the two humans, two angels and the demon. "Was He," Joseph jabbed a forefinger skyward, "making chairs and tables and cabinets? And was I doing it for free? Did we ever not have a meal on the table? No. And who was responsible for that? Him?"

"You've been a magnificent provider." Mary patted his cheek. "But now you're not allowed to work, so somehow He provides."

Joseph spoke to everyone in the room, having all along noticed they were there. "If there isn't an ATM an angel brings her cash."

"I never ask," Mary told everyone.

"You stand there and say, 'Oh, isn't that a lovely pair of shoes. Pity I can't afford them.' Pop comes an angel. Always with hundred dollar bills – they have the new ones, with the fancy blue stripe. I don't know where they get them. They must have some angelic printing press. Or they're robbing banks."

"I didn't buy those shoes, now did I? That money became a tip to the very nice gelato server." She clapped her hands. "Reminds me! We brought gelato! And Cinnabons and this stuff called lefse."

Crowley, holding his tumbler, came up beside the young woman and put his arm around her. "Hello, luv. You look absolutely delic—"

Mary took the drink from his hand and threw it in his face. While he smiled and wiped his face with his red handkerchief she pushed away from him. "I saw what you were looking at. But what can I expect from a man who sold his soul for a bigger," her nose wrinkled, "thingy."

"Mom!" yipped Jesus.

"Yes, I know about that!" She scowled at Crowley as he snapped his fingers and a fresh, clean red handkerchief appeared in his breast pocket. "Let me give you some advice. You should've asked for three inches _around_ , not longer. Most women like them _thick_."

Jesus covered his face with his hand. Gabriel's face reddened. Castiel sunk deep into the bean bag and focused on his knees.

"Dying of embarrassment," whispered Sam, whose face was the color of a boiled beet.

"Right there with ya," whispered Dean.

"Women, we have this thing called a cervix," Mary lectured the demon, "and having things banged against it doesn't feel too good, y'know."

"MOM!" said Jesus.

"What you should've sold your probably worthless soul for was knowledge of what _pleases_ women. But it was never about you pleasing the woman, was it? No, like all men it was about pleasing yourself. A big ego requires a big—"

" _MOM_." Jesus jabbed his finger to indicate the others in the room. " _Company_."

"I see, dear, I'm not blind."

"I'm still a virgin, in case anyone's curious." Joseph sat in the La-Z-Boy, flipping through a _Hard Rock Café Mall of America_ take-out menu. "Virgin when I married, and then after the boy came and her virginity was restored, well, it was 'God's not going to restore it a second time, Joseph.' This is why I work with my hands. A lot."

"Yes, dear, we're all fascinated," said Mary.

"Some years I cranked out a dinette set a week."

"MOM. DAD. COMPANY," Jesus insisted.

"I'll say hello here, then! Jeez o petes!" She spotted Gabriel sitting uncomfortably on the floor. Her face paled. "Gabriel."

His smile was more of a wince. "Hi, Mrs. God."

"I'm pregnant again," said Mary with horror, placing her hand on her stomach.

Gabriel waved his hands emphatically. "No, no! I'm just visiting!"

"The last time you 'visited' I ended up with this one!" She pointed at Jesus.

Synchronized, Sam and Dean stared at the archangel.

"I just announced it to her! I didn't do anything! It was the Holy Ghost!"

"And he never called after that," Mary muttered.

Crowley whistled. "Procuring under-age girls for your father. And one engaged to another man. And they call _me_ a devil."

Gabriel protested, "In 33 B.C. fifteen wasn't underage! I didn't procure her, Dad picked her! He just sent me to tell her…," slowly, he thought about what had happened, "that…she was gonna …carry his… without really asking her if she wanted to…." He stopped and blinked. "Yeeaaah, I see that in a whole new light."

Mary shook her finger at the Messenger of God. "You tell His Father that if He wants another one I demand dinner and a movie. _Handmaid_ , my tuchis." She turned to Castiel, who'd turned up his trenchcoat's collar to cover his ears. "Castiel! So good to see you again! It's been decades!"

Cas unwillingly scrambled to his feet and accepted Mary's kiss on his rough cheek.

"Ma'am."

Mary patted his sides. "Your vessel's thin as a rail! Don't you feed him?"

"He's fine, ma'am."

"Oh, you angels treat your vessels like they're only clothing, I hate it! What's with your voice there, then? You're not making your vessel smoke are you? You want a lozenge?" From one of the shopping bags she pulled out a large, quilted, over-the-shoulder blue purse and dug around in it.

"No thank you, ma'm."

"It's no trouble." A rattle, crinkle and a squeak came from her bag. "I got Ricolas."

"Hi, I'm Joseph." Joseph raised his hand in a weary acknowledgement of the Winchesters. "Jesus's meat dad. Just in case you were wondering. Not that anyone was."

"Cas, you knew they were alive and you didn't tell us?" said Dean.

"He didn't know Jesus was alive, because he wasn't _allowed_ to know. And he knew better than to _ask_ , being a good soldier." Mary yanked out a Ricola, pulled off the wrapper with some difficulty, and as Cas's mouth opened in silent protest she popped it in. She smiled at the boys. "Me and Joseph he could know about since, um, we're not that big a deal up here. But he wasn't ever to tell about _us_ , either. Hello, Jesus' new friends. I don't recognize you."

Cas shifted the Ricola to one cheek and muttered with difficulty, "They're people. _Living_ people."

Mary gasped.

"Oy," said Joseph, looking up and shaking his head.

"You can't have people here! Especially…" She experimentally squeezed Dean's arm. "Living ones."

"I didn't invite them, Mom. They found the secret back door."

"We don't mean to intrude," said Dean, as Mary continued to explore his right bicep, "ma'am."

"Don't mind me being in the same room," said Joseph, "I'm only the foster father." He pulled a fragrant box from a bag. "Cinnabon, anybody?" he asked unenthusiastically.

Dean politely stepped back and Mary let go and clasped her hands in front of her. "Ma'am," he had no idea the proper way to address her, "are you a prisoner here, too?"

Mary looked at Jesus with resigned disapproval. Jesus opened a Coke and sucked on it. "So, they know, then?"

"Like, I don't have anybody new to talk to for a couple hundred years, so..." Jesus shrugged. "I spilled."

"I'm not a prisoner, dear." Mary put her purse back in the shopping bag. She sat with excellent posture in the La-Z-Boy. "I can come and go because other than teleportation and eternal youth I have no magic, so his Father doesn't…didn't…see me as, well, able to complicate things."

"Dad doesn't call it 'magic,' Mom."

"Well, there's no difference in my book." She addressed Sam and Dean with her incongruous Minnesota accent. "God allows me to go forth among the people but without anyone knowing who I am, ya know. I have the power to blend in, and I have some angels who watch over me. Well, they used to, until they all went kinda, sorta…" She wiggled her forefinger in a circle around her temple. "Not that I need guarding, I can't die, but God always said demons couldn't be trusted." She glared at Crowley standing behind the bar, who lifted his glass to her and drank. Smiling at Cas she added, "Castiel had guard duty over me for a while, didn't you? We had fun."

Cas dryly reported, "We were at the Stonewall Inn on June 28, 1969. I would debate the description of 'fun.'"

"Yes it was! We and those nice young men in dresses overturned a paddy wagon!"

Joseph flipped a page of _The Watch Tower._ "And I was here, reading _Portnoy's Complaint_. All in all, I'd've rather been at the riot."

"Ma'am," said Sam, hopefully, "do you know where God is?"

Mary patted his arm. "No, dear. Nobody does." She gripped his upper arm while smiling up at him. "Oh, look at Mr. Worry Face. All the little muscles are twitching." She looked at her right hand, which was clenched around Sam's forearm, and pulled her hand away. She poked his side and walked over to her bags. "You need to eat. We got Arbys. Want some curly fries?"

Gabriel came over to the bag. "Sure! Did you get marinara sau—"

Mary slapped his hand, which he yanked back and rubbed. " _You_ can conjure food from thin air. If you want curly fries you can pull them out of your- you make your own! Can't you see how hungry and scared and lonely these boys are?"

Gabe whined like a five year old. "It takes _energy_ to make stuff out of thin air. I want real food for once."

"We're hungry, yeah," said Dean. "But ma'am, we're not scared or lone—"

Mary beamed at him as if she understood that Dean was protecting his pride. "You've a strong, brave boy, but you're a liar. We got rib tips from Famous Dave's. I _love_ Famous Dave's!"

"That's right," Gabriel grumbled jealously, "pamper the humans."

The corners of Mary's mouth tightened as she dug out through the shopping bags.

"Did I hear someone say something?"

"Gabe," Castiel warned lightly, but sympathetically.

Gabriel snapped, "C'mon, Cas! Doesn't it irk you, even a little bit? From Dad to… _His_ mom, the humans have always been the favorites." He held up his hands to Mary when she glared at him. "Don't get me wrong, I think they're better'n us." He added as he addressed everyone in the room, "But damn, when have we ever, _ever_ , been shown the attention and kindness and...and _love_ they get?"

"Yeah, demons and monsters trying to turn us into their personal Happy Meals," said Dean. "We feel so loved."

"We're not meant to be objects of love," Castiel reminded his brother. "We're not supposed to even feel it."

"So why then _do_ some of us know what it is?" The archangel confronted his brother. "And want it? And miss it? Yes, miss it! Dad loved us! You felt it, too. We loved each other, big brothers, little brothers, all of us, we _did_ know love, the love of the _heart_. " He hit his chest with his fist. "You may have gone to Earth as a dutiful solider, an officer of the Lord, but you didn't stay that way. And I didn't stay what I was. Because we missed love."

"You were _always_ different," Castiel insisted.

"Yeah! And why's that? If Dad created me with the intention that I have no thought but to be his Servant, then how is it I was unhappy doing what He created me to do? How did I change? Why was I even _capable_ of change? And why do I feel…not loss…" Gabriel's expression was restless, as if both searching for and avoiding something. "An emptiness." He looked Castiel in the eye. "You don't feel it?"

"I don't know what it is I feel," Cas muttered.

"Liar. All the times in the early days when we saw Mary doting on Jesus, didn't you think, 'I want that. Why doesn't someone give that to _me_?" With pain in his voice Gabriel added, "'Why did Dad stop giving that to me?'"

Crowley had been silent and immobile during this exchange. The façade of smugness had melted from his face, revealing a bare, weather-beaten surface.

The demon croaked, "I feel it."

"Who's asking you?" Gabriel sneered.

Crowley's mouth twisted and his large eyes narrowed and glowed. "No one ever does ask _me_ , do they, eh?" His register lowered and he spat his words. "You angels. All holier than thou. You say it's your duty to protect humans, but where were you when Lucifer began corrupting us? _Eh?_ In Mexico I've seen murals of angels walking behind little children, protecting them, overseeing their day to day lives with mercy." Crowley's eyes shone not with internal fire, but surface moisture. "Where, where was an angel to protect _me_? You think I was _evil_ as a little child? No. I was scared and lonely, and maybe, _just maybe_ , I cried out for Mother Mary," he glared at Mary, "or some angel," he looked blades at Gabriel, "to intercede on _my_ behalf. And what'd I get? Another beating." He hissed with bile rising, "I may have been darker by nature from birth, I can't know, but it didn't take much of a push, not when at a very young age one is made quite clearly to understand that the protection of mothers and Heaven is a _lie_."

"Crowley," said Sam, not unkindly, "the human blood is—"

Crowley snarled with tears in his eyes, "Yes, I bloody well know, it's turned me into a pathetic, mewling-" he shot a finger at Sam. "And that's _your_ fault! _Damn you_ , and I _will_ , given a chance!" He ground his teeth at Gabriel and Castiel. "You hypocritical bastards, we all of us want _that_ ," he nodded at Mary as his voice cracked, "from a mum, from a dad, from two dads, two mums, a grandparent, an auntie, a guardian! Why don't we have a mother's love, from _someone_?" His voice and expression collapsed. He sobbed, "I want a mummy!"

Tear streamed down Gabriel's cheeks. "I want a mommy too!"

Cas, his face red as he burst into tears, cried, "I want a mommy too!"

The angels and the demon grabbed each other and hugged fiercely.

"Cinnabon?" offered Joseph.

"Well," said Mary as the three beings sobbed and embraced. "That's different."

"Anyone else find this deeply disturbing?" asked Sam.

"Oh, as opposed to the non-disturbing day we've had so far?" said Dean.

"We want our mommy!" wailed the angels and demon.

Jesus sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and sighed.

"Dudes, what I said about the room, being, like, responsive, uh… "

An earthquake rumble shook the floor. Everyone flung their arms wide for balance.

Bits broke from the walls, the carpet, and all the furniture, and flew to a vortex that swirled the very air in the center of the living room. Water from the wet bar faucet swept upward and curved into the spiral, as well as Coke and pieces of food. Particles of everything in the room save the beings there joined the tornadic spin, coloring it, thickening it. Light bulbs burst, electricity from their sockets and the sockets in the walls sizzled through the air and sparked throughout the undulating, turning maelstrom. With a flash and a roar that made everyone slam their hands over their ears, the elemental form solidified.

Slowly, everyone uncovered their ears and widened their eyes.

The woman was medium height and yet she seemed to loom over them all. Her skin was the color of rich, warm brown earth ready for planting. Her hair was blacker than deep space and fell to her hips in thick waves. Her features were full, her figure was bountiful. Her body wasn't clothed; what covered her from shoulders to hips was a constantly shifting mosaic of leaves, grasses, bark, flowers and other vegetation.

Everyone was very silent when her gaze examined them. Her irises and pupils were like portals into the eternal reaches of space, whose view changed as if it were seeing all the universes one after the other. They saw spans of stars, brilliant suns, milky bands of galaxies, planets forming from space dust, suns exploding and feeding upon themselves until they became pinpoints darker than description.

It, she, looked at her hands. Her lips snickered. "You envisioned me as," she paused, tilted her head as if listening to something to which only she was attuned, "a Hawaiian woman?" She snorted. "Isn't that just unsurprising. You think brown women are more in touch with Nature, isn't that the stereotype?"

They blinked at her. No one moved.

"I appear in a form the gestalt of your imaginations subconsciously chose in order to best perceive me. So I look like this because of _you_."

"Ma'am?" Sam squeaked.

"Who the hell?" Dean blurted.

"What the frick?" Jesus swore.

"I like your hair," said Mary.

"My what?" The woman, or whatever she was, turned her head slightly, as if hearing an internal translation. "Oh, the stuff on my head." She looked at Mary with her disturbing eyes. "Strange how homo sapiens shed almost all their body hair but kept the stuff on their heads. Must have been advantageous. Or is that due to the evolution of sexual signals and a preference for mates with head hair? What a strange thing to prefer."

They blinked at her.

"I know you all can talk," said the woman-creature. "The problem is usually to get you to shut up."

Jesus said abruptly, "Who are you and how did you get in here?"

She, it, focused on him for a few seconds before replying. He shuddered.

"I'm not a who, as such. I am all whos and none. And I didn't get in here. I was always here. I AM here."

"Oh wow, it's a Taoist," said Sam, reflexively needing to say something.

She, it, focused on him. Sam felt the way he had the time he and Dean had stumbled across a grizzly, far closer to it than any human should have been. It had risen on its hind legs and gazed down on them. The brothers had been petrified. The grizzly had slowly lowered itself onto all fours, turned, and disappeared into the pines. Neither brother confessed to wetting himself, but both changed clothes as soon as they returned to the Impala.

"No," said the force in human form, "but you're right, the Taoists come the closest to a poetic understanding of science and nature."

"You're Mother Nature," Sam stated, as calmly as he knew how.

" _What?_ " the rest of them exclaimed.

The it-woman spoke to them all while her disturbing eyes focused on Sam, who forced himself to return the gaze, respectfully.

"I am a consciousness gathered together in order to communicate in a way you'll understand."

Dean's skepticism and guardedness prickled. How many times had a thing claimed to be something it definitely wasn't? "Gathered together from what?"

Nature looked at him. Dean stiffened but held his ground. "OK, I'll simplify. I am nature. Let's make that capital N, Nature, since that seems to add gravitas to how you hominids of this time and place interpret something. I am the laws of physics, laws of classical dynamics, gravitation, relativity, radiation, thermodynamics, electromagnetism, photomics, quantum mechanics, geophysical and biological laws. I am matter dark and light; I am everything. I am Science. I am Nature."

Dean, not ready to concede, said, "But you're talking and thinking."

"You're composed of atoms and electrical impulses, yet you're talking and thinking," said Nature. "Allegedly."

Gabriel at last found his voice. "How can you be all those things and be a consciousness?"

"You're all those things. Are you conscious?"

Gabriel defiantly and defensively said, "God our Father created nature."

The it-woman grinned. It was magnificent and frightening. "Ask him where he was before the Big Bang."

"You remember the Big Bang?" Sam scoffed.

Nature stared at him. He swallowed, hard. "I _was_ the Big Bang. I'm sorry; I thought you were the one with the university education. Would you like me to draw pictures? If I recall hominids have the capacity to see and comprehend in two dimensions."

Crowley smirked and clapped, three times, slowly and sarcastically. "Very good, darling."

"I really don't think you should do that,' Sam warned, not taking his eyes from the it-woman as her head slowly swiveled to face the demon.

"You had me impressed when you broke in in the first place." The King of Hell walked up to the it-woman, who wasn't much taller than he. While he strolled in a circle around her, eyeing her with intentionally disrespectful and exaggerated salaciousness, he added, "I score you ten for showmanship and concept – or should that be showpersonship? I'm inhaling a reek of feminism. Not that I mind! All's equal in Good and Evil! But truly, pet, to attempt to pass yourself off as a goddess of nature—"

Her rich voice spoke with absolute calm as her fathomless eyes watched his sarcastic circuit around her. "I'm not a goddess."

"I know you're not. So what are you?"

"A goddess is a part of nature. You are a part of nature. I am Nature."

Crowley stopped and his nostrils flared disdainfully. "Oh look, someone who studied at the Jonathan Livingston Seagull School of Pretentious New Age Philosophy."

"Jonathan who?" everyone asked.

"Oh, stupid bleeding book from the '70s, huge bestseller!" snapped the demon, irritated that they hadn't found his antiquated pop reference clever. "I hold the contract on Richard Bach's soul, y'know."

"Who?" everyone asked.

"Never mind!"

Castiel's eyes narrowed as he flipped through the rolodex of his memory. "Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I know that reference. I liked the book. He had wings." He glanced at everyone staring incredulously at him. Confused, he pointed out, "He was a seagull."

"Shut up!" ordered Crowley, his patience gone. With contempt he said to the it-woman, "Look, dearie, don't insult my intelligence by—"

The flash in the woman's eyes was barely perceptible. At first everyone thought they'd witnessed a flaming comet fly across the galaxies in her irises. But they saw Crowley's eyes expand as if he felt that something very, very wrong was happening with his body. In an instant Crowley, body, suit, shoes, his entirety, collapsed as a pile of multi-colored powder, pellets, and a large puddle of water.

Everyone yelped.

"Holy crap!" yelled Dean.

"Thank you," Mary said to Nature. "Really, he didn't know when to stop."

Sam stood over the puddle and the powders. "What did you do?!" he demanded of the it-woman.

"Reduced him to his elements." Her tone was matter of fact.

"Elements?" said Gabriel, staring at the mess.

Nature dispassionately listed, "Oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus, to begin with. There were more petroleum products than I would have imagined. His tailor snuck in some cheap thread."

"Nothing's supposed to die in my room, dude!" cried Jesus.

"Define 'die,'" said Nature.

Sam sputtered, "Bring him back!"

Dean blinked. "Did you just say that?"

Sam blinked. "Did I just say that?"

After a few calming breaths Castiel addressed the being. "Truly, Mother Nature-"

"Just Nature. I encompass all genders, sexes, combinations and lack thereof, and ones you can't imagine on planets and dimensions far beyond your understanding."

"It wasn't …fair…the way he was…dismantled," Castiel explained.

"Fair. That's a mental construct some sentient creatures have. It's not natural law."

Dean scowled. "What, you don't care if you kill someone?"

"Does water care when someone drowns in it? Does fire feel traumatized about burning someone to death?"

Mary chimed in, "If it wouldn't be an inconvenience, would you mind reassembling him? Just so they boys won't fret."

Nature looked at the elements and the expanding puddle of water. Her eyes flashed.

Crowley stood before them exactly as he had been before, except for the expression of sheer terror.

"You going to be polite now?" asked Nature.

"yessum," squeaked the demon.

"Where were you?" Sam asked with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"I think I wet myself," Crowley rasped, not daring to move or blink.

"Ma'am, uh, Nature…" Dean chose his words and tone very carefully. "Seriously, with all due respect…why have you…appeared to us?"

"Appeared to you? I'm not a deity. Not any more than a flower blossoming is, or a bee gathering honey, or a sun going super nova." She nodded at the angels and the demon. "These are creatures that have a greater ability to manipulate the laws of Science than your species does. Which is all natural, they evolved that way, but sometimes they make big enough splashes in the kiddie pool to disturb others. So -"

"We didn't evolve!" protested Gabriel. Crowley whispered a warning at him from the corner of his mouth, but the archangel continued. "We were created by God, our Father!"

"Yes, you angels were," said Nature. "But there's nothing special about that."

"I beg your pardon?" asked Gabriel, ignoring Crowley's head-shaking.

Nature's eyes narrowed. "What patience I've managed to scrape together by forming a brain with the ability to communicate with a hominid consciousness doesn't have the patience to educate you. And I sense you don't want to hear it. Let's just say that in all the universes as well as on Earth there are creatures that can create forms identical or similar to themselves without sexual reproduction."

Gabriel blinked. "Say what?"

"Your dad can do what any asexual single-celled animal can. Bravo. Feel special now?"

"HA!" laughed Crowley. "You're a celestial amoeba!"

"First," explained Nature with a surprisingly amused tenor to her tone, "you angels did evolve somewhat after your God 'made' you. You just don't remember it any more than these two," she looked at Sam and Dean, "remember when their species evolved from being Homo Habilis. The difference being, you angels, as individuals, can evolve in your lifetimes because they span the millennia, while these Homo Sapiens have never been Homo Habilis." She paused, taking in their staring faces.

"Look, angels, it's with you and your father as it was when Zeus birthed Athena fully formed from his forehead."

Castiel's mind wasn't accepting any of it. "I beg your pardon, but Our Father's creation of the Heavenly Host was nothing like that."

Nature sighed with impatience. "Why is Athena's birth a less attractive creation story than your God snapping his fingers and all you angels appear?"

Gabriel put his foot down. "Because Zeus wasn't real! Not _real_ real, like Dad!"

Nature smiled at the archangel in a way that wasn't pleasant because it was trying to be pleasant and didn't fully comprehend the concept. "And here we have why I've come to talk to you all today, besides the fact that you were crying for your mommy." She added, pointedly, "Which I am. I am the mother and father of everything." She turned to Gabriel.

"Why weren't you surprised that Baldur didn't realize that you weren't his brother Loki? The brother who killed him?"

Gabriel's face went blank. "I, uh – he _what_?"

"Uh huh." Nature clicked her tongue knowingly. "You angels recognize each other no matter what human body you're wearing. Why is that? It's because you see the form beyond the form. Don't you think other gods would recognize their kin, too? Baldur didn't know you weren't Loki because he wasn't Baldur."

Gabriel scoffed. "Yes, he was. I'd known him for years."

"The gods you knew weren't gods," Nature stated. "They were demons posing as gods."

"Why would they do that?" asked Sam.

Nature nodded to indicate Gabriel. "Ask the archangel why _he_ posed as a god."

With all eyes fixed on him Gabriel shifted from foot to foot. "I …well..."

Nature cut to the point. "They were in hiding, the same way he was." Addressing the archangel, she said, "Of course you didn't know they weren't the gods they claimed to be." Her gaze swept across everyone in the room. "How could any of you have known?" She added, firmly, "Your 'God' didn't want his family and his believers playing with the neighbors. He moved into the Deity Neighborhood fairly late in the game. He thought the thousands of deities already in the world were weird and nasty. And, more important from his point of view, they were getting all the attention. Millions of people loved them. So, thought the creature who called himself God, if I can't make the humans love me, I'll make them fear me. I'll make them believe that if they put any gods before me I'll smite the life out of them."

Castiel set his jaw. "That isn't true."

Nature's head turned to face him. He swallowed and squared his shoulders. "Did he confide in you?"

"No."

"Did he, your God, ever speak to you at all?"

Castiel's cheek muscle twitched before he spoke. "I…don't believe He did."

Nature continued as if the angel had never interrupted. "After a millennia of only getting a few thousand nomadic desert people to fearfully worship him, God, as we'll call him, had an idea. Maybe if they love a part of me—"

"Meaning _me_ ," said Jesus.

"…I can get more of them to love me," said Nature. "I'll give them Heaven! Eternal life in Paradise! What a concept! So with his marketing and promotion team it stormed the world. Sure, it required some torture of nonbelievers, but what's a little genocide on your way to the top?" She concluded concretely, "But it didn't kill the other gods."

His face screwed up with confusion and frustration, Jesus said, "But, like, if they're, y'know, _real_ , why haven't I met them? Like, nobody's stopped over with a six pack wanting to hang out."

Gabe crossed his arms over his chest. "They were the only gods of those names _I_ ever met, and I've been around for, oh, _a while_. If there _are_ others, where are they?"

"How much venturing out of the Christian-saturated North and South Americas have any of you done?" After they all glanced at each other, signifying that none of them had indeed been elsewhere much, Nature sniffed. "If you all would visit the other spiritual universes you'd know better. But no. You live in your little gated community with its KEEP OUT signs and metaphysical razor wire and believe you're all there is."

Dean sniffed cockily back at her. "You talk to these other gods? Why talk to them but not to us?"

"Because the Gods and I have never _stopped_ talking. They know they're a part of Nature. But your Yahweh, or Jehovah or whatever name he's going by this millennia, is an arrogant jerk who's thumbed his nose at me since he first realized that he could think. By deity standards he's a teenager who believes adults are ignorant backward dullards to be ignored. So he made certain that his followers hate and fear nature." Nature snickered. "If I'd spoken to you you wouldn't have heard me. Nature talks to you all the time! Hey, you've polluted the water and the air, better stop! Hey, you're screwing up the climate; notice there's more bad storms, flooding and droughts? Excuse me, the glaciers are melting, does this say nothing to you? No, because you believe your God is going to move his hand and fix it all. Besides, Jesus will come to rule a perfect healthy Earth, so why worry?"

Jesus sulked, "Yeah, well, I'm not packing my toiletries any time soon."

Nature capped it off. "Your Dad God has taken a hike and left you without guidance." She paused as if balancing whether something was worth saying. She tilted her head, having made a decision, and examined them all. "Do you know why Metatron is obsessed with being a writer?"

"Enlighten us," grunted Crowley, impatience dominating his fear.

"Because his Father was."

"Yeah, we got that," said Dean. "God dictated the Word—"

"No. He was, literally, a writer. On Earth."

"On Earth?" Jesus, Mary, Castiel, Gabriel and Crowley blurted simultaneously.

"What twentieth century writer fits the description of arrogant, boastful, prideful, not particularly respectful of the female gender or people who aren't heterosexual, a 'man's man,' who apparently needed to constantly assert his dominance over nature in order to validate his superiority, and who was insanely jealous of other writers?"

Their faces were blank.

Sam flushed with revelation. "God was Ernest Hemingway."

" _What_?" the rest of them spouted.

Nature nodded. "It was as Jesus said, his barrage of questions made God realize that humans would never stop probing. His façade could collapse. Yes, he'd created Leviathans and Angels, Heaven and Hell, from his own being, but he hadn't created everything else as he made his children believe. Sooner or later, they'd catch on. He was a fraud, and, like all beings who plagiarize, he wanted to cover up his lies. He hadn't created anything poetic, anything beautiful. Angels were a part of him, so they shared his arrogance, his close-mindedness, his xenophobia. They weren't perfect and they weren't beautiful."

"Hey!" said Gabriel and Castiel.

"Not the way the things of humankind were. His demigod son drove home the difference between God and the humans. Jesus questioned. Jesus had original thoughts." Nature asked Jesus, "You do know that what you said while you were on Earth, what you preached, your philosophical and theological ideas, came from you, not him, don't you?"

Jesus frowned. "No. Like…it was His Word. Coming through me."

"He wanted you to believe that. He'd only planned to have you be as close to a perfect person as could be, to perform some miracles and give him the credit. But the sermons. The parables. How you brought people together. That was you. You surpassed your father. That wasn't part of his plan."

"Christ," said Jesus. He sat down. "So to speak."

"Your father realized he inspired artistic beauty in humans, but it didn't come _from_ him. What was it that humans had that imagined what he couldn't? The only way to learn the secret, he thought, was to become human himself."

"What was He doing all those centuries between Jesus' resurrection and Hemingway's birth?" demanded Gabriel impatiently.

"First he sulked in The Garden. It was the one truly beautiful place he could take credit for. Joshua provided the companionship and worship he needed. But after a few hundred years God couldn't get past the fact that though he'd arranged nature in amazingly gorgeous ways in The Garden, he didn't create the things of nature or nature itself. He could make a tree bend to his will, but, contrary to what Joyce Kilmer wrote, God couldn't make a tree. It drove him nuts."

"He wandered the galaxy for another few hundred years, popping in on life there – there is life on planets other than Earth, you know – but what Nature, what I, had done on those other planets so confounded him, was so unlike what he knew, that he fled back to what was familiar. And loved. He did love Earth, and his children. But, like so many fathers, his family wasn't enough."

"And that's when he became Ernest Hemingway?" said Dean.

"In June 1918, an eighteen year old, seriously wounded American ambulance driver awoke in the wee hours in a Red Cross hospital in Milan. No one else saw or heard what was said, because his visitor had put them all in a deep sleep. Me, I am everything, everywhere, so I knew. The visitor had been deeply impressed with the young man. They shared similar tastes and opinions. The visitor saw a lot of potential in the young man. That potential could reach fullness with the visitor's assistance. So Ernest Hemingway said yes. He got to keep his legs, and his life."

"So Hemingway was God's meat suit." Dean's lip curled.

"It wasn't quite the same as the situation with you two." Nature looked at Castiel and Gabriel.

"Jimmy —" Castiel began.

"Jimmy has no autonomy," Nature interrupted, curtly. "Jimmy is nothing. Jimmy _isn't_. Gabriel. What's the name of the human you inhabit?"

The bitterness, pain, anger and sadness that moved in Gabriel's face answered her.

"Hemingway and God worked in accordance. But, as would inevitably happen when two huge egos are confined together in a small space, they grew sick of the situation. Notice, if you have any knowledge of that writer's life, how many fatal situations Hemingway escaped. Oh, at first Ernest and God were best buddies, tempting Death, mocking Fate and Nature. Running with furious bulls, drinking too much, driving too fast, diving into wars, killing every animal that could kill them, wooing and abandoning woman after woman, jealously insulting and punching other famous writers. But Ernest wanted his own life. He didn't know if his talent was wholly his own or from God. So things started to go wrong. A car accident; amoebic dysentery; another car accident; pneumonia; diabetes; and two plane crashes."

"Ernest wanted out of the partnership," said Sam grimly.

"They both did. Because, you see, God was wondering the same thing Ernest was. Was he a great writer because of his own talent, or only because of Ernest's?"

Gabriel asked, quietly, "Which of them pulled the trigger of the shotgun in Sun Valley?"

Nature looked at him without expression.

"And God went where?" Castiel rasped.

Nature continued, with no acknowledgement of the angel's question. "So, angels, without your father, you've ended up like the one family on the block who keeps everybody up all night with your fights in the front yard and your trash blowing all over. You're bad for the neighborhood."

"What neighborhood?" Crowley snickered. "We're all there is."

"Consider this an intervention," said Nature. "Your neighbors feel sorry for you."

" _What_ neighbors?" said Dean.

Sam, looking past Nature, muttered, "Oh, crap."


	3. The Old Kids In Town.

They all looked at the spot Sam was staring at. A large oval section of the living room wall seemed to go liquid. It swirled counter-clockwise, and then slowly opened like a camera's aperture until it was large enough for a human to walk through. Light and wind gushed in. All but Nature shielded their eyes with their arms.

The aperture snapped shut and the wind collapsed. The wall was solid and normal again.

Before them stood a young South Asian man in a saffron colored suit, wearing a garland of red and yellow marigolds.

Beside him was a woman with midnight-blue skin, with a wild, hip-length mane of wavy black hair, wearing a dark blue suit and heavy gold earrings, and a white dot with a red center on her forehead. The palms of her four arms were red.

The tall young man had white blond hair which seemed to shine from an internal light. His eyebrows, mustache and neatly trimmed beard were the same color, but didn't shine, though his pale blue eyes, pale skin and rosy cheeks glowed. His suit was light gray.

The young Asian man's suit was pale blue over a white shirt, and its lapels and cuffs were red. His mustache was thin and hung a little past his chin.

The black man was resplendent in a black tailcoat and top hat pitched at a jaunty angle. He held a walking stick topped with a small silver skull in his left hand and a glass filled with what looked and smelled like rum. He smiled around his cigar, revealing even, white teeth. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes deep set and as cold as coal lumps.

Nature said, "Allow me to introduce the authentic Ganesh, Kali, Baldur, Zao Shen and Baron Samedi."

Jesus blinked. "Oh. Hey. Wow, this is totally awkward." He gestured to the kitchenette. "Uh, we got beer. Want beer?" He noted the Baron's rum and chuckled. "Ha, B.O.B., dude."

Ganesh said, humorlessly, "We're here because we're pissed, _dude_."

Gabriel snapped his fingers as he nailed down the name he was looking for. He pointed at Ganesh. "You look _exactly_ like the guy, Raj, on _The Big Bang Theory_!"

"And you look like the guy on _Hello, I'm a Racially Stereotyping Prick_ ," said Ganesh. "Oh, yeah, Indians, we all look alike."

Sam said, "Dude, you _do_ look just like him."

Everyone else nodded, even the other gods.

"I only choose this look because my normal one would freak you out!" said Ganesh, his feelings hurt. "Y'know, elephant head?"

" _Screw_ what they think," said Kali. "You don't see me hiding my other two arms."

"Yeah, but you're usually topless and wearing decapitated demon heads, so you made some concessions!"

Kali shrugged, conceding his point. "Hey, I'm visiting here for the first time. I'm trying to be semi-polite." The woman's voice was rich as black earth and as pointed as the blackened tip of a wooden stake as she added, "Polite to _you_ , Jesus, because it's your home. But you jerks..." She glared at Sam and Dean. "We heard what you called us at the Elysian Fields motel."

Dean, ever defiant, asked, "How could you, if that wasn't really you?"

"I told them," said Nature.

"How did _you_ know what we said?"

"The same way I knew what God did. I'm Nature. I'm everywhere." She looked at Sam with annoyance. "Is he always this slow?"

"Hey!" said Dean.

"He's been really well-trained to see things only from one point of view." Sam's smile was apologetic. "He doesn't do outside of the box really well."

" _Hey_!" barked Dean.

The Baron spoke, his voice as rich as rum. "It doesn't matter if those beings at the motel were the real us or not. It only matters that you _thought_ they were."

"That's _so_ insulting," said Zao Chen.

Ganesh put his hands on his hips. "Didn't you notice that what you saw was an African elephant, not an Indian elephant? And the man was of African heritage, not South Asian. The demon got his disguise wrong because, _duh_ , demons are stupid! And you so-called experts didn't catch on?"

Crowley, who'd been watching it all with detachment, held up one finger to get Kali's attention. "Excuse me, darling—"

Kali flicked her hand. Crowley's tie suddenly tightened like a noose. "Shut up. I eat demon bugs like you for snacks." While the demon coughed and loosened his tie Kali aimed daggers at Gabriel. "And you. Me and you? _Together_? Don't flatter yourself, angel."

Gabriel, well impressed, wiggled his eyebrows. "Well, if you got to know me—"

"You have an upper lip like a Simpsons character," said Kali. "Not happening."

Gabriel, stunned, produced a mirror from thin air and examined his lip.

"You know about the Simpsons cartoons?" Sam asked with astonishment.

Kali's sigh and sarcasm were epic. "Oh, _right_. We're all sad little deities that don't exist in the modern age."

"I watch Netflix, idiots," said Zao Chen.

"Really?" The Baron looked at him skeptically. "I thought you had cable."

"I do! But man, _House of Cards_ , that's my show!"

Baron Samedi said, "What's truly pathetic is that you Winchesters didn't even think to question whether what you were dealing with that day were truly what they said they were. Why didn't you? _Ohh_ , I know why." He took a sip of rum, rolled it around in his mouth, and swallowed with a sour expression. "Because they were 'pagan gods.' _Why_ would you bother finding out more about _pagan gods?_ "

"OK, so we made a mistake." Dean crossed his arms. "Why are you taking it personally, you weren't there-"

"Dude!" From his breast pocket Ganesh took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. "You called us," he consulted the page, "'Primitive screwheads' and 'filthy murdering chimps!'"

Dean searched his memory and came up empty. "I did?"

"You said you'd 'love nothing better than to slit your throats you dicks.' and called us 'lame-ass bitches.'" He looked at Dean with a deeply hurt expression. "Dude, you don't even _know_ me!"

Kali patted Ganesh's shoulder. She snapped at Dean, "He's the god of wisdom, prudence and salvation. He's the Remover of Obstacles, the Lord of letters and learning."

Ganesh wiped his eyes. "I'm a poet!"

"And _vegetarian_ ," added Zao Chen with emphasis.

"How could you think I'd kill and eat people?" Ganesh asked the humans. "I follow Ahimsa, which means not to cause hurt to anyone by speech, deeds or thought! Mohandas Gandhi worshiped me! And you thought I was a carnivore in a cheap suit?"

"He has great taste in clothes," Kali assured everyone.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't—"

Baldur broke in. "I'm the god of light, joy, purity, beauty, innocence, and reconciliation. I was so beloved that everyone on earth pledged to never harm me. Except my brother Loki. Who killed me."

They stared at him.

Baldur cleared his throat. "I got better." He added, angrily, "I'm not some jerk so afraid of your Lucifer that I was in hiding! Lucifer's a couple thousand years younger than me, I'll have you know! It's like saying that the high school football captain was taken down by a kindergartener!"

They stared at him.

"Well, it is!" cried Baldur.

"Speaking of hiding," Kali rounded on the Winchesters, "for your information, and apparently you need _a lot_ of information, _I'm_ the goddess of time and change. I'm worshipped as the ultimate reality and the redeemer of the universe, as well as a mother goddess. I _kill_ demons, I'm not one!"

Sam ventured, "I've heard you can be kind of violent."

"To demons and evil beings! And you want violent, hey, wasn't me who created an eternal torture chamber where, for a while at least, Christians would burn if they ate meat on Fridays! Seriously. _And_ for your information, do you really think I'd hesitate to get into your car because, what, it's _dirty_? I wear demon heads! What do you think _this_ is?" She showed her blood-red palms. "L'Oreal moisturizer? I'm too frou-frou to get into a muscle car full of old fast food wrappers?"

"How do you know about my car?" said Dean.

"I'm a _Goddess_. Really, haven't you guys evolved out of the trees yet?"

"People love me!" said Zao Chen. "I protect them and their homes! They celebrate me with a great festival of firecrackers and food and housecleaning!"

"House cleaning?" said Crowley.

"You have no idea what a great feeling of renewal comes from a well-scrubbed floor."

Samedi blew out a column of smoke. "Well, Monsieur Gabriel, I also enjoy rum, women, and song, as well as a fine cigar. I know THE filthiest jokes ever spoken on the planet."

Gabriel smiled, enticed. "Really?"

The god smiled in return. "It would've been a hoot hanging with you, given you're a goodtime boy like me." His smile spoiled like wine to vinegar. "Except you're an ethnocentric jerkwad."

The demon, having composed himself after his experience of non-being, said irascibly, "It's brilliant that we're having this lovely chat, but is there a _point_ quivering in the offing?"

The portal in the wall softened and swirled again, opening just long enough for a tall figure to enter. They all blinked, since the lanky white man looked familiar.

The man addressed the gods. "Sorry I'm late." He nodded to the blond man. "Hey, Baldur."

"Hey, Loki."

"You resurrected nicely."

"You think? Feels like I'm a couple inches shorter."

"No, no, you look fine." The authentic Loki aimed a tight, insincere smile at Gabriel. "Hi."

Gabriel shook his head. "The _real_ Loki? But, you're Tom Hiddleston."

Loki smirked. "Some con, eh? On my honor, such as it is, I didn't work any magic on the casting director." Without a pause Loki came up to the archangel and punched him in the gut. As Gabriel bent forward, gasping, Loki said, "That's for impersonating me, you hack. If you try it again I'll do such a Lorena Bobbit on you that a 'Casa Erotica' video is the only place you'll see your precious privates again." He turned from the coughing angel and smiled at the other gods. "We still on for poker?"

"Oh, definitely," they said.

"Can't," said Kali. "Got a lair of demons in Bangalore to clean out."

"That won't take you but a minute. Bring tacos?"

"Quetzalcoatl's bringing the tacos," said Zao Shen.

"I'll bring pakoras," said Kali.

"Brilliant." Loki smiled and bowed to Nature. Waving to the gods and completely indifferent to the rest, Loki walked to the opening portal. "Ta!" In a second he and the portal were gone.

"You all know each other." Dean spoke to the gods as if he smelled a conspiracy.

Zao Shen huffed, "We've always known each other. Unlike certain families we don't have a problem with each other."

Sam's jaw muscles bunched. "And you didn't have a problem with the Apocalypse all but happening?"

Zao Shen laughed. "Doesn't affect us!"

"Not a lick," seconded Baron Samedi.

"What?" said Sam. "How is that possible?"

Kali set her two lower arms on her hips and crossed her two upper arms. "Oh please. Do _you_ know about the south Sudanese civil war?"

Dean sputtered. "I - what? No."

"How about the northern Mali conflict?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other quizzically. They looked back at the goddess and shook their heads.

"Does the war in Iraq affect you, really affect you?"

"I guess not," Sam conceded.

"Right. You go along with your semi-normal lives and never think about the hundreds of thousands of people dying from wars and violent insurgencies around the world. So why would _we_ care about what _your_ Heaven and Hell are doing?"

"Because the Apocalypse could've destroyed the planet!" Dean cried.

The gods laughed.

"Isn't he right?" Jesus demanded.

Samedi explained, "When the angels fell, you saw angels. The rest of the world –the non-Christian parts of the world - saw shooting stars."

"Your religious war affects _your_ believers and followers!" said Zao Shen. "The people who don't believe in you aren't affected!"

Sam waved his hands to indicate he wasn't accepting this. "There were earthquakes! Tornados! Rivers of blood!"

"For _you_ ," Kali countered. "For non-Christians it was tornados hitting Christian homes, earthquakes hitting Christian places."

"Pat Robertson got it soooo wrong," said Zao Shen.

"He's one of _his_ demons, FYI," said the Baron, pointing a thumb at Crowley.

Crowley snorted. "Anyone who doesn't realize _that_ is willfully ignorant."

Nature addressed the angels, the Holy family, the humans, and the demon. "Realities are layered. Like filo dough. Just as the wars the Hindu deities have had among themselves have no effect on you, you have none on them. They and their followers exist simultaneously with you. But not necessarily experiencing what you do."

Sam squinted. "So…if we stopped believing in Judeo-Christian religion, the Apocalypse wouldn't happen to us?"

Nature sighed. "That's too simplistic. Think of your deities and others like the ocean of air and the ocean of water. Birds don't know what happens with whales, and the reverse. But air and water constantly mix, to greater and lesser degrees. For the majority of time Western deities and Eastern deities coexist on the same plane. But there are things which happen exclusively to either."

"It's a coincidence, or maybe synchronicity, that your calling for a mother coincided with we Gods finally asking Nature to set up this meeting," said Ganesh. "You're hurting yourselves."

"What do you care?" Dean demanded abrasively. " _Look_ , hardly anybody worships you-"

" _Hardly_?" snapped Kali.

" _Hardly_?" trumpeted Ganesh.

"The third biggest religion, I'll have you know!"

"Over one billion believers around the world!"

"Hi, millions of believers, thank you very much!" said Zao Shen.

"And what do numbers matter?" said Baron Samedi indignantly. "My people are just as devout as yours. Some _more_ so."

Baldur added, "There are still people who worship the ancient Egyptian gods, and my family! You've never heard of the Asatru? Do your research!" He added, "There are Wiccans and Druids, Indigenous people in the Americas, Australia, New Guinea and the Pacific Islands. Are you saying that if their believers don't add up to some particular number their religion isn't legitimate?"

"That's what a lot of your followers said to the Native peoples of your continent, _and_ whatever lands you over-ran!" Kali pointed out to the Holy family, with heat. "They ripped kids from their homes and forced them to worship _you_." She directed her anger at Jesus. "Your followers put Indigenous children in electric chairs and tortured them into abandoning their gods! And you called _us_ monsters?"

"Getting back to your question, demon," said Nature as the Gods took deep breaths, "yes, there's a point. First, to make you aware that you're not alone on the planet. But that your battles are yours alone. If you destroy yourselves, Earth and its inhabitants will continue on."

"Gosh," said Sam miserably. "I feel better now."

Dean took a deep breath and scowled, feeling embarrassed and ashamed and not for a minute willing to admit it. "Then what does it matter if we kill Metatron?"

Kali's expression softened only slightly. "It matters because beings ARE suffering. Humans and angels alike. Look, if the family down the block is being beaten by their father you'd call the police, wouldn't you?"

"Hell yeah."

"We're not the world's police, but we don't like seeing anything suffer. We're all part of the Nature of Earth. We're ALL family. Just very distant cousins. There's no benefit to this pain you're inflicting on yourselves and innocent mortals."

"We would've helped, once upon a time," said Zao Shen. "But…two thousand years of bad blood, bros."

Samedi said, "It's _you_ r mess."

Ganesh lifted a hand to signal reconciliation. "But we can tell you something that may help." He hesitated, and then corrected himself. "Well, Nature can. _We_ have things to do."

Kali turned and spoke over her shoulder as she walked toward the living room wall. "We have responsibilities to our believers. We can't do everything they ask us to, but we can do as much as we can." The wall rippled and began to move in an oval spiral like thick slurry.

The rest of the Gods followed Kali as an aperture formed and widened. Ganesh looked at the others and pointed to Nature. "Listen to Mother. She knows what she's talking about."

Jesus ran up to them. They turned toward him, startled. Jesus nervously smiled and shrugged, then stuffed his hands in his shorts' pockets.

"Hey. Uh…I like poker, man."

The Gods looked at each other.

Jesus shrugged. "'Cept Dad won't let me leave."

"Can you have people over?" Ganesh ventured doubtfully.

"Well…He never said I couldn't. 'Sides, not like He's around to say no."

Ganesh turned to the other gods. "Bring the game here Friday?"

After exchanging skeptical and resentful glances, they said in unison, "We'll think about it."

Gabriel sprinted to them and shone his most charming grin at Kali. "I can be here! I deal a _mean_ hand, baby!"

Kali fixed her eyes on him. "Take a look at some of the art representing me and then consider if pissing me off is a good idea."

Gabriel's grin cracked. "I have other places to be that day."

" _Yup_."

With backward glances that revealed mixed emotions, the Gods stepped through the vortex. It shut, leaving bare wall.

Everyone was silent with their thoughts. Only Crowley huffed and drank with no hint that he'd been moved by anything that had occurred.

Sam broke the silence. "They won't help us."

"Would you have accepted help if it had been offered?" asked Nature.

Jesus startled them by kicking at the coffee table. He pointed accusingly at the wall where the portal had been. "D'ya see? I mean, y'know? Do you see what's happened in, like, my name? I mean, jesus!" He sputtered in frustration. "Somebody needs to come up with some non-religion-based expletives, y'know? I don't like the sexual and potty mouth ones. Like, I dunno..." He thought for a minute while everyone stared at him in bewilderment.

" _Kumquat_!" swore Jesus. "Damn _kumquat_ it already, OK?!" He went over to the wall and slapped it with his palm. "They seemed like pretty cool dudes! That was, wow, an education! New shit has come to light! There was a definite meeting of minds happening there! I could've known them _all along_! But _no_. Dad and His…" He shook his forefinger at the wall, unable to come up with the appropriate word. "And what she said, Kali, about those little kids being tortured…." His face reddened. "I have no control over my believers!"

Mary crossed to him and rubbed his back. "Son, no one blames you."

"Well, uh, Mom, I think a lot of people _do_ blame me, _y'know_? And _I_ mind! The Jesus minds!"

Castiel's dry voice creaked as he spoke to Nature. "Ma'am… I don't believe I comprehend everything that was said."

"Don't try to. Just absorb the essence of it."

"And that is?"

"Your father is not the hero you think he is. Oh, you complain about him. But everything you do, you do with the hope that one day he'll return and praise you for what you've done." She eyed the demon. "With an exception."

Crowley grunted. "Thank you for not including me in the Mickey Mouse Club."

Nature focused on Jesus. "You need to be freed from your illusions, whether you like it or not. So. Do you want to know where your father is?"

"What?" said Jesus.

"You _know_?" cried Gabriel.

Castiel answered with urgency. "Yes. _Please_."

Nature said, evenly, "It's as Jesus said. God, your father, stormed out. After he and Hemingway parted ways, he felt the need to prove himself. But he suffered from severe writer's block. Besides, had he written anything under his own name, who would believe it was him? Abandoning that idea, he convinced himself that he created the Law of Physics, therefore he had to be stronger than the Law of Physics, and he set out to prove it."

Castiel felt an icy trickle of dread between his wings. "How?"

"Ever heard of a Black Hole?"

The room went silent.

Sam squeaked, "God was sucked into a Black Hole?"

Crowley cupped a hand to his ear. "Listen. It's Carl Sagan laughing his arse off."

"Dad's _dead_?" cried Jesus.

"Maybe," said Nature.

" _Maybe?_ " Dean approached as close to the woman-creature as he dared. "You don't _care?_ "

"Why should I? I'm Nature, _all_ of Nature. I'm not emotionally invested in your or anything's survival. You adapt or you don't. Don't think that just because the Neanderthals are extinct and Homo Sapiens aren't that proves I was rooting for you. I don't know if whatshisface actually went into the Black Hole or not. I just know that he thought it was the most powerful natural phenomenon in the current universe, so he was going to 'kick its butt' to prove he's the top."

"But you _could_ know, since you're everything and everywhere," said Sam. "Can't you stop him?"

"Are you not listening? I don't care."

Crowley giggled. "So Jehovah cannonballed into a gravitational pull so powerful that even light can't escape! Could He come out the other end, assuming it has an end? Would He emerge in one piece, or as little deity confetti?"

"This isn't funny, Crowley!" growled Cas.

"I beg your pardon, it's fucking hilarious."

Sam considered aloud, "Could He emerge in another dimension? _Are there_ other dimensions? If He did emerge in one, could it be so different from this one that He can't survive?"

"Sam!" yelled Dean.

"Hey, it's an interesting concept, that's all!"

Dean punched the back of the La-Z-Boy, causing it to rock violently. "We're back to where we started, with an absentee God!"

"Yes," said Nature. "You're free. Free to toss aside your obsession with God rescuing you. You're right, Dean, Sam. You're Team Free Will. It's as it ever has been, in your hands."

"Knowing there's no God doesn't help us with Metatron!" Dean said, violently. "It helps _him_ by him deciding to be the new God, with no God to stop him!"

"And there's your strength." Nature's focus on Dean was so intense that he stopped in place, flushed, and gave her his full attention. "What you need as a weapon against Metatron -"

Dean's eyes widened. "The Blade! Where the hell… It's still in the door!"

"You left it in _the door?_ " roared Crowley. "After all the trouble I went to procuring it for you?"

Dean ran to the other room and grabbed the door latch.

"I can't open it," said Jesus. "'Cuz, like, imprisoned and all. You have to."

"Friggin' thing won't open!"

"Jiggle the handle."

Together the Winchesters wrenched the latch downward and yanked the door open. Icy air twisted in.

Just inside the hall sat a small, marmalade tabby kitten. It looked up from the Blade and mewed happily.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean tried to grab the bone knife from the kitten. She hissed and swatted at his hand.

Jesus ran to the door, but some invisible barrier prevented him from reaching through. "Lil' Mittens! Dude, did you lock my cat out? Didn't you see the sign?"

The kitten ran to Jesus and he picked her up. She rubbed against his beard, purring loudly.

Dean lifted the Blade. The door shut of its own accord. The older brother held the end of the legendary weapon between his forefinger and thumb. With the exception of its handle, the First Blade was chewed to mush.

" _Son of a_ _bitch_ ," Dean repeated for emphasis.

"Language!" said Mary. She came over to Jesus and scratched the kitten's head.

"Dude, she was locked out and she was hungry!" Jesus gave the kitten's forehead several rapid little kisses. "You'd gnaw on a bone too if you were stuck in a dark, cold hall with no food!"

"Wouldn't the evil poison the cat or something?" Dean glared at the animal.

"She's _my_ cat, man. Evil doesn't touch me or my stuff."

Dean and Sam exchanged desperate looks. "We are incredibly screwed!" said Dean.

"Do you feel any power from it?" asked Sam.

"What I feel is kitty spit." Dean wiped his right hand on his jeans. He pushed up his right sleeve. The Mark of Cain wasn't responding.

"I'm y'know, the Son of God, man." Jesus took the Blade. "The Holiest of Holy, second only to the Big Guy. My power deactivates all evil, and, like, my cat's under my protection. So, dead Blade." He went into the kitchenette and dropped the remains of the First Blade into a waste basket. The remains burst into brilliant, white flames. When the light abated all that was left was light, powdery gray ash.

"It's, like, a Holy cleansing waste basket," said Jesus. "So there's no trash build up in here. Toilet works the same way. Scared the holy crap out of me the first time I used it." He laughed until he noticed no one else was. "The human part of me still has to, y'know. Uh, was that too TMI?"

Nature spoke to Dean and Sam. "Do you think Metatron would be stupid enough to let you get close enough to stab him? Your opinion of him is justifiably low, but I warn you, he's very cunning."

"How do we fight against a ruthless, cunning angel?" Sam asked her bitterly.

"You ask, what's his nature?"

"Meaning?"

"He's a writer."

"Like God was Hemingway?" asked Dean.

"No. Like a hack with no originality who thinks he's a better writer than Hemingway."

The brothers searched each other's faces, both feeling an idea dawn and wondering if the other was sharing the same revelation.

Dean began. "So Metatron is…"

"A fan fiction writer," Sam concluded.

"And a bad one," said Dean.

"Metatron's a fifteen year old geek girl?" said Gabriel.

"He's a sexually-frustrated, middle-aged, gray-haired woman?" said Crowley.

"He's a closeted gay man?" said Castiel.

"He's a writer," said Nature. "That's his weakness."

Sam impatiently asked her, "So we, what? Line edit him to death?"

"Writers are notorious for being insecure depressives." The thing-woman stopped. She turned her head slowly, as if something had come to her attention. Giving no indication of what was going on, she stated, "It's time for me to go."

In midair her form shift into many forms, breaking apart into the vegetation that her been her torso, steaming lava where her hair had been, smells, chemical and organic, all writhing and twisting in each other as if they were part of a giant ball of cosmic dough. Every possible sound in the universe, from bird cries, ice cracking, waves surging, roiled together, forcing them all to cover their ears.

"Wait!" yelled Sam. "How do we use that weakness—"

A flash blinded everyone in the room. When their eyesight returned there was no evidence that the being, the creature, the whatever it had been, had ever been there.

Dean sniffed with aggravation. "Well. No sentimentality there."

Sam turned to his brother. "The weapon is depression?"

Gabriel sighed as if he'd run a marathon. "Speaking of depression…" He opened the small fridge, uncapped a bottle of beer and gulped so hard his Adam's Apple danced.

"We don't have that luxury!" Dean barked at him. To Sam he said, "OK. Writers get depressed. Why?"

"They fear rejection." Sam snapped his fingers. "No! They _get_ rejections!"

"What weapons do we have against him?"

"Angel blades."

Castiel's melancholic, sandpaper voice said, "Nature spoke the truth. I know of no way anyone can get close enough to him to strike. His guard is never down."

"As far as Metatron knows we still have the Blade," said Dean. "OK, that's something we can recreate." He turned to the archangel, who was opening a second beer bottle. "Gabriel! You can woo things out of the air! Can you make a convincing First Blade?"

Gabriel tossed the cap into the trash, which flared. "Look, it's futile—"

"I've heard that song before and you can ram it! Are you gonna man up or not?"

Gabe slammed down the beer. Furious, he faced Dean. Dean stiffened, ready for anything.

The archangel spoke calmly. "No. I'm going to do one better. I'm going to _angel_ up."

He lifted his right hand, palm upturned. The air above his hand shimmered. A First Blade, identical to the original in appearance, lay there.

"Happy?" He shoved it at Dean, who took it, examining it with amazement. "It's just a facade, there's no power in it. What good is _that_ going to do you?"

Dean looked the archangel-trickster in the eye. "Something you know all about. Misdirection."

Gabriel looked intrigued but skeptical. "You forget. That typewriter of his. Metatron can shape reality with it as easily as I do, but with the Power of God's Word, which is beyond anything you've encountered, _believe_ me. If he types 'Sam and Dean choke on their own blood,' it'll happen. And there's nothing on this earth I know of that can halt the Word of God."

"Cas," said Sam, "how well does Metatron understand current popular culture?"

"He's the one who put the entirety of it in my mind."

"That's cultural references. How well does he understand _social media_. The Internet?"

Castiel considered. "I don't believe he pays any attention to it. He has angel radio."

"Good!" Sam turned to Gabriel. "But you know all about it?"

Gabriel snickered knowingly. "My twitter name's _dick4days_."

"That's _you_?" said Crowley.

"You've Followed me?"

"No. I've trolled you."

Sam grabbed the archangel's shoulders eagerly. "We're going to need you to recruit all your Followers, your Friends, and as many _Supernatural_ fans as you can."

Castiel asked, with distaste, "The people who enjoy Chuck's books? Are they reliable?"

"You really need to meet these folks, Cas." Dean chuckled. "They're a hoot."

Castiel's nose wrinkled. "I don't think I'd like that. What they're doing with their lives is very superficial."

Crowley, restocked with a glass of Camus Elegance XO, lounged back in the La-Z-Boy, which, he had to begrudgingly admit, was amazingly comfortable. "Well, you all have a lovely tea party. I'll be here. _Alive._ "

Sam shook his head. "Nope. We need you."

"Not _me_ , dear Moose."

The tall young man grabbed the glass from the demon's hand and towered over him. "Yes, _you_. If anyone can sell bullshit, it's _you_. And you'll have to be more convincing than you've ever been in your entire miserable life."

Crowley purred, "I told you, Moosey, I'm anything but miserable." He grabbed back his drink and inhaled its scent while his large eyes narrowed at the human. " _But_. I'm always up for a challenge. If the pay-off is worthwhile."

With an even voice, knowing the demon's one weakness, Sam said, "The payoff is, Metatron dies and you live."

Crowley grinned. "Can't think of a better. When do we start?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in direct reponse to Supernatural's episode "The Hammer of the Gods." In it, Kali, Ganesh, Baldur, and Zao Chen are depicted as human-eating monsters. This is an insult to the millions of people around the world who are devot believers in t these gods.
> 
> Supernatural had an unfortunate contempt for any religion besides Christianity, specifically Catholicism. I'm a life-long atheist, but my father taught a university course on Comparative regions, using Joseph Campbell's book "The Hero With a thousand Faces" long before it became part of a hit PBS TV series. While I don't believe in any religion, I see the beauty and awe believers receive from them, and I was taught by both my parents to respect them. Supernatural didn't. Which is a pity. If the series' writers had explored the thousands of world-wide religions, they would have discovered a font of potential material, as I did for this fanfic.
> 
> I wrote "The Meta Testament" partly to give some dignity and respect to the deities Supernatural besmirched.


	4. The Once and Future God.

"Sir – God, we must kill Crowley immediately."

Metatron, certain of his resplendence in his gold and black smoking jacket, white shirt, black satin trousers and matte gold ascot, didn't look up from his notes. "Hmm."

Hannah hadn't known the new Ruler of Heaven long enough to gauge his moods when it came to things such as interruptions. She was giving him the benefit of a doubt for the most part because if God – her Father, God – had chosen this one to be His Voice, then who was she to question the angel's qualifications? But he did seem to have an inordinate preoccupation with his own agenda –what that was, she wasn't exactly sure yet – and not with the reestablishment of order in Heaven. Still, it was not for her to doubt, but to serve and obey.

"His presence," Hannah continued. "The angels are all very disturbed. To have a demon _here_ , and the King of Hell no less."

Metatron looked up with what could pass for a benevolent smile. But there was something about his eyes that gave Hannah pause.

The former Scribe of God let her stand there for several silent seconds, clasping his hands on his legal pad and his judicious outlines for his story, and delighting in the fact that he _could_ make her stand, silently, for pretty much as long as he wished. It brought back the glorious old days, when an angel who dared to interpose while God was dictating to him received a scowl from Father that would hurt for quite a long while.

Taking his time, because he could, Metatron rubbed the thumbs of his clasped hands together. He spoke, quietly, with what he believed was paternal patience. "Are you questioning my judgment?"

"No, God. It's just….unprecedented."

Metatron believed his smile was beatifically reassuring, but firm. "I know things are different. You've been excellent in adapting. You just need patience. And faith. You remember faith, don't you?"

Hannah scolded herself for feeling he was being insultingly condescending. "Yes, Lord. But..," she hesitated, but dared it. "May I and several guards be in attendance? Not that you aren't able to defend yourself against a mere demon, but…"

Metatron nodded to show that he understood. "Your concern touches me. Yes, I'm merely a scribe, strong only in the Word. You're warriors. I'm humbled by your concern for my welfare. Which is of course the welfare of Heaven and Earth, as they now depend upon _me_. But, the demon followed the proper channels in requesting an audience with me and I can do no less than graciously allow it. The Lord moves in Mysterious Ways, Hannah!" Metatron opened the right top drawer of his desk and slipped his pad in with all his other pads, special pens, a well-worn thesaurus and copy of Strunk & White's _Elements of Style_. He shut it and crossed his arms on the desk. He tried to visualize how this pose looked, whether it was better than clasped hands. Mentally, he framed it as if it were an author's photo on the back cover of a book. He decided that crossed arms looked defensive, so he interlaced his fingers at the point where he wasn't leaning too far forward or back, so that he looked both confident and relaxed. He nodded to the angel again. "Bring him in."

Hannah waited to be sure that Metatron had stopped his inexplicable fidgeting. Uncertain and secretly disapproving, she left to fetch the guard and the "visitor."

The door reopened. Metatron looked up with half-lidded eyes and a sedate smile.

"Lord God," Hannah announced, walking ahead of a square of four angels, "it is—"

Crowley sauntered in expansively, shoving aside the surrounding guards.

"Ding dong! Damnation calling!" Crowley looked around admiringly. "So this is Heaven. My, my. Land o' Goshen." He strolled over to the windows and peered out, the angels taut as they watched his every move. Examining the view, the demon clucked his tongue. "Doesn't look a thing like the brochures. You've seen, I assume, the propaganda the more desperate believers litter public transportation with?"

"With which they litter public transportation." Metatron smiled.

Crowley grinned widely. "Ah yes! You're a writer _and_ editor." While he explored Metatron's office the demon continued, "The illustrations make Heaven look like a very clean and organized Disney World. Without the rides and the sweat." He chuckled and spun a globe, stopping it suddenly by planting his fingertip directly on Orlando. "Wouldn't it tickle the tourists to know that Uncle Walt was one of mine? Heh, I _own_ Florida."

"You have _business_ with God, demon?" Hannah made no attempt to disguise her disgust.

"No, I came here for a sleepover," Crowley replied, dryly. "We're going to do each other's hair and nails and giggle about boys." Pleased with her repulsion, he addressed Metatron while he gazed out the windows on the other side of the office. "Now the design choices here," he pointed to indicate the Golden City of Heaven, "are these original or _your_ choice? The exteriors are very Richard Neutra, all sharp angles, flat surfaces and jutting corners, very cold. And your flunkies' offices are 1950s high school administration office. But this! _Your_ office!" Crowley held up his hands and looked around to indicate how impressed he was. "The contrast couldn't be greater. I'm sensing…Yaddo Writers' Retreat." He looked confused. "If you're pure Spirits, why do you even need a city?"

"He's blithering," Hannah said. The four other angels nodded.

Crowley lowered his voice and spoke as if only he and Metatron were in the room. "They don't get out much, do they? But you, you're a man of the world. Does it get dead boring not having anyone to talk to who has even a glimmer of the worldliness you have?"

Metatron refused to react. He held his pose and smiled.

Crowley's deep, rough chuckle made the angels' hair stand on end. The demon winked at Metatron. "Oh yes, you're a writer. You listen, observe, and remain aloof." From the corner of his eye he spotted a crystal decanter full of amber liquid and crystal tumblers, set on a silver tray. He jerked his head to indicate it. "Do you mind? The trip up was," he glared at Hannah, _"unfriendly_. I'm gasping."

"Be my guest," said Metatron, graciously.

"Ta." Crowley filled the glass half way. He circled it under his nose, inhaling deeply. He large eyes brightened. "Cognac Courvoisier and Curlier!" He sniffed again. " _1789_! Well! This _is_ Heaven!"

Metatron tried to hide his astonishment. "You recognize it?"

"I'm responsible for it! I held the contract on Emmanuel Courvoisier. I drank this while watching heads being lopped off in Paris." Crowley made himself comfortable in an oxblood leather wing chair facing Metatron's desk. "Oh, those were the days. Give the Conservative Republicans half a chance and they'll bring back the guillotine. Public decapitations on FOX News. You know where I'm putting _my_ campaign contributions. You'd think I'd have actual demons running for office, but nary a one. It's delightful when humans can out-demon Hell's minions." He lifted his glass to God's scribe. "To the Tea Party." The King of Hell sipped. His nostrils flared and his eyes closed. He swallowed luxuriously.

Metatron indulged in a chuckle. "You're a connoisseur, demon."

Crowley gestured at his host with his glass. "As are you. Heh, an angel with a taste for the finer things in life and eternity." Crowley leaned forward and spoke as one member of a club to another. "It's the living two millennia with humans that did it, isn't it? Wearing the old meat suit. One can't help but feel it, can one? Through osmosis. You can't be apart from the body and all its influences. It's too seductive. We know about seduction, you and I. While _they're_ clueless." He leaned back again and spoke to Hannah while he swirled the glass so that tiny rainbows flickered in the cuts in the crystal and the cognac glistened. He knew his affectations were irritating the stick-up-their-arses Heavenly Host. "The suit just confounds you, doesn't it, luv? What did you think when you first came into contact with all that plumbing? All its needs and urgencies? You just shut them down, didn't you?"

Hannah did her best to ignore him, partly because he was God's guest, however loathsome, partly because it was her duty to be on her best behavior, and partly because she didn't want to give the noisome toad the satisfaction of acknowledgement. Two of the Angel Guard couldn't help but glower at the demon in hope of intimidating him into good manners. It rankled them that he seemed to delight in their vehement disapprobation.

Crowley confirmed, "Seduction we have in common. Bringing angels and humans to the Word of Good or Evil requires conviction in order to entice." After another long sip, Crowley inquired, "Back in your secretarial days, did you write shorthand or long hand?" He grinned conspiratorially. "Did you tweak any? How could you not?"

Metatron kept his expression steady and pleasant. "I was writing the unchangeable Word of God."

"Unchangeable? So He got it perfect on the first draft? Oh, excuse me, _in_ the first draft. Huh. Perfection, how dull. Was He? Perfection? Or dull?"

Hannah, unable to contain herself, spoke. "This is blasphemy."

Crowley continued as if Hannah didn't exist. "Did you take dictation for the New Testament?" The demon touched his fingers to his lips as if he'd never intended to jab the sore spot he was certain Metatron had. "OH. Wait. Dad cut out the middleman there, didn't he? Spoke directly to the Apostles." He tsked with pseudo sympathy. "That must have been galling. They were barely literate, grubbing about in the desert. Y'know, I would've understood if your Father God had impregnated a girl from the Han Dynasty."

At the word "impregnated" the four guard angels looked at Hannah with silent entreaty, hoping for a signal that they should intervene. She stood with expressionless stoicism, so they could do no less as Crowley went on, conversationally, "If His Son born of woman had been born into an upper class or even royal family then he would've had an education in medicine, music, literature…" He gestured to Metatron's reddening face with his glass. "Have you seen the sculptures from that period? The flying horses? Gorgeous! Why choose Bethlehem, of all places? To have his kid grow up as a carpenter, of all things—"

The demon made a croaking sound as his hand holding the crystal tumbler felt as if every molecule of moisture was being sucked from it. The glass fell and rolled under the chair. He panted with pain as his hand's flesh began to shrivel and wrinkle like jerky, a fine dust of salt particles forming on the shrinking skin. Gasping, Crowley slid off the chair and onto his knees on the Persian carpet, his left hand grasping at his mummifying right.

Hannah and the angels stiffened, staring with alarm at the demon's huffing mouth as he obviously was holding back a shriek. Hannah reminded herself that this new God favored the Words their Father had set down in the eldest of the Testaments. The one before Salvation. She had never met Their Father. But she knew what He had been capable of when His children disobeyed. _Or had Metatron taken liberty and skewed the text to match his own personal interpretation of Father's strictures?_ She scolded herself for that thought.

Crowley's tearing eyes looked up at God's former scribe, who had one forefinger lifted in order to create this torment. The angel's hardened expression tried to conceal a rage that, even in his agony, the demon could feel went down very deep, possibly to the angel's very core. Keen manipulator that he was, the King of Hell mentally filed this angel's vulnerability for future reference.

"Right." Crowley fought not to hyperventilate. The demon knew pain, pain beyond mortal imagining, but this was new to him, reminding him that the power of the Servants of God was far superior to those of any minion of Hell, even its King. As he'd learned to do with previous stints with mind-cracking suffering, Crowley's mind found a tiny speck of sanity, enough for him to muse, _If only I could recruit angels as torturers in Hell._ Aloud, he gutturally groaned, "Not supposed to mention the kiddo, eh? How gauche of me."

Metatron astonished himself with the sudden, powerful fear and anger that flooded him. He stuffed it back down, tightening himself as he eyed the demon on his knees, grabbing the wrist of his withering hand. "And that's the posture you will remain in while addressing me, demon."

The angel motioned with his forefinger. Slowly, with prickling sharpness, life and vitality returned to Crowley's hand. He tentatively flexed his fingers and winced.

"Too right," Crowley rasped. "What am I but a hyped up human? And you're an angel." He ventured a smile. "No, you're God." He rubbed his hand and dared to sit rather than kneel, his legs splayed out like a big toddler. He inquired with a tone of sincere curiosity, "So why are you still occupying that meat sack, here in Heaven? You're pure souls, why do you need all this?" He gestured with his chin to indicate the surroundings not just of the office but of the Golden City.

Metatron stated, "He is not a meat sack."

Crowley raised his eyebrows as if reluctantly conceding a point. "Well, he's a human. Or was." To further test this arsemonger - which is exactly what Crowley was doing, knowing full well from centuries of experience that one can't fight an enemy unless one understands the minefield of his sore spots as well as his desires - he asked, "Who was he? How'd you come to pick him? Is he the original or only the most recent acquisition?"

Hannah stated defensively, "We don't acquire. Unlike you pollutions we must be invited in."

"Pollution!" The demon grinned at her, which made her eyelid twitch. "Such an Old Testament word!" He read the surprise on her face and internally smacked his lips with satisfaction at winkling out something she'd apparently had on her mind. Making a mental note of _Metatron, Old Testament_ , Crowley directed his observation to God's scribe. "D'you notice no one on Earth uses that word anymore? It's extinct. Like Z.P.G. and litter-bug. Yes, angels must be invited, but do your vessels ever truly know what they're getting into? They lose everything. Oh, there's the honor of being the vehicle of an Angel of the Lord. But they as individuals vanish. Any hopes and dreams they had will never be realized. Do you tell them that before you inhabit them?"

Metatron ignored the goading as best he could. He waited to see if the damned creature spouted anything useful.

Crowley leaned back against the chair behind him. "I've known all along what it is to be human, having been born one. But you," he nodded to Metatron, who, from the angle Crowley was at on the floor, was a face over the desk, "it must have been a revelation. So this was Dad's greatest creation. You're a man thick with curiosity, like the Elephant's Child. You couldn't have just pulled on a person and kept up a wall." Smiling connivingly, his deep voice purred, "No, I suspect you're in every individual cell and fiber, reveling in the endless delights. What value is a soul without sensation?"

The angels, who all had their own human vessels, surreptitiously glanced at each other. With a censorious glare Hannah brought them back to attention.

"I adore all the sensual enchantments of human flesh," Crowley announced as Metatron narrowed his eyes at him. "Taste buds are glorious! The sweet, gamey viscosity of blood on the tongue. It is my particular theory, and I've had the advantage of centuries of observation as part of my business stratagem, that all pleasure, small and great, comes from tension and release. For example, a sneeze! The burning tickle on the roof of the nose and then the thrill of a good, hard blow! To feel an itch on the bottom of your foot driving you mad, becoming more and more urgent while you yank off your shoe and peel off your sock. OH, the rapture of a scratch! And isn't a fart a wonderful thing?"

The angels stood straighter and blinked at the demon seated on the floor. While they paused to consider this theory, Hannah snapped her own opinion. "He's being profane."

Crowley smirked up at her. "What all you angels need is a good fart. Fart your way across Paradise like jellyfish and you'll feel better. Poor, deprived things! I wager your vessels are begging for it. Oh, it's delicious to feel the gas building in your gut, roiling, pushing its way down the tube—"

The angels, who had all been on earth after Metatron's induced Fall, had encountered several of the normal biological functions of humans. They hadn't liked them a bit, and their expressions reflected that. Even Hannah's.

Crowley held forth, "That pressure against the sphincter, aching the longer that you resist, which makes you shift from cheek to cheek—"

An angel nodded desperately to be excused and, without waiting for Hannah's permission, walked out of the office. Her superior wasn't inclined to prevent her.

"You concentrate on it," the demon specified, with shining eyes, "you clench because you want to _savor_ it. And then, that glorious release! And the rich variety of sounds! Shy little poots. Growlly long sputters. Barking, brapping. And those explosions that clear a room with fruity wafts of internal purification."

The three remaining red-faced guards gulped, turned on their heels, and marched in a perfect triangle out of the office, clearing their throats as they went. Hannah pretended to ignore their departure.

"And sex!" Crowley crowed. "Talk about the ecstasy of tension and release!" He winked, _winked_ , at Metatron. "What it must have felt like when you first had a wank, eh? Do you remember your first hardon?"

"He has never… he has never!" Hannah bleated, her cheeks flushing magenta.

"You think you're the king of the world! That glorious, engorging rush of-"

Hannah babbled frantically, "I have to...I…" She clicked her heels, nodded in acknowledgement of her Lord, turned in place and marched rapidly out of the room, shutting the door with loud haste after her.

"I get all giggly just thinking of it," said Crowley.

Metatron's voice was humorless. "Your attempts to shock and disgust me are pathetic."

Crowley looked at the closed door. He rose to his feet and straightened his suit while waiting to see if the guards would return. When they didn't, and when Metatron didn't call them back, the demon faced the angel with an expression that was all business.

"You weren't the one they were aimed at. I want to talk with you alone. You and I can understand each other. You're the new God and I'm the King of Hell. I think it only proper that we have a Jehovah-Satan, Upstairs-Downstairs tete a tete about this brave new world we're constructing."

Metatron raised a single, sardonic eyebrow. "We?"

Crowley approached the desk. "What's Heaven without Hell? If you'd wanted Sam Winchester to slam the gates on me you'd have let him."

Metatron's mouth tightened. He'd assumed Crowley knew why the younger Winchester had halted the spell to seal Hell. But of course, why would he? It wasn't as if the Winchesters would confide in this wretched monster. And how could the demon know about Naomi's betrayal and how he had dealt with it? Better that the current King believe he'd had a hand in stopping Sam Winchester. "I was occupied at the time."

_You prat_ , Crowley thought. _Please, do continue to underestimate me. So you_ _ **don't**_ _know that I'm in collusion with Moose and Squirrel. That's what I wanted to know._ "Missed opportunity, then. Just as well, because you need your angels fighting something other than themselves."

"In my new world I don't need any fighting at all. You're defunct, demon," Metatron snapped. "I will make Paradise on Earth as it will be in Heaven."

"Hm. And what will Hell be, then?"

"A demon reservation," said Metatron acidly. "Heaven has been negligent dealing with you abominations because we've been distracted. But _I'm_ writing the script now. And the new Word of God is that there will be an angel border patrol after every single demon that slimes its way out into the world. Kill on sight. No questions asked."

"You can't do it. Too many demons. And you've hemorrhaged too many angels. Not any more of _you_ being made."

"The power of one angel is a thousand against one demon! You couldn't even kill that impotent Castiel."

"And the humans? Alone and terrified on Earth?"

Metatron straightened regally, he believed. He lifted his chin and pronounced, "I'm writing another testament. The Testament of Marv, Humanity's new Savior."

"Ah ha."

"I will walk among the people and perform miracles. Healing. Raising from the dead."

"And those who don't believe you're the Messiah?"

"They will." There was not an atom of doubt in Metatron. When he pictured the scenarios of what he would do and how the humans, angels, and demons, would react, he smiled boldly. "They'll be convinced. For the greater good, they'll be convinced."

"Lovely, "said Crowley, who'd seen the same glint in tyrannical eyes so very many times before. They were all dust, or broilers in Hell. But Crowley remained, intact and nattily dressed.

Metatron relished the words as he said, "So your services are no longer necessary."

Crowley had been waiting for a shoe to drop, and had anticipated this one. "Ahh, but they are. Or at least, I've one last deal to offer."

"I don't negotiate with filth."

"Then consider it a gift! You're not God. _Yet_."

"I'm as good as," Metatron said indignantly.

"I'd agree, if it weren't for two spanners that always, inevitably, exasperatingly get thrown into the works." He paused for effect. "The Winchesters."

The angel was truly surprised. He'd assumed the Lord of the Flies would challenge his strength with all the powers of Hell. Instead… _the Winchesters?_ He laughed. "Don't insult me!"

It was Crowley's turn to be indignant. "They tossed Lucifer _and_ Michael into the Cage and threw away the key! They killed my _best knight_!" He added, sincerely, "Look, I don't care who wins in this angel kerfuffle. I only care that _I_ stay alive! Right now your siblings are running around like chickens with their heads cut off – their head being Daddy-O. If you miraculously win their loyalty and secure your place as New God, I know there's no place I can hide."

"Why would I keep you alive?" Metatron sneered.

"Because you know I'm powerless against you, and I gauge you as a man who doesn't waste his time swatting insignificant flies. But you know that _I_ know that the only chance I or anyone has in defeating you is with _these_."

Crowley opened the door to the foyer to Metatron's office. The guards there turned in surprise. Before they could move Crowley snapped his fingers.

Magic that was not of Heaven whooshed through the hall, the foyer and circled in the center of the office. In a second there appeared Sam and Dean Winchester. In another second Crowley shut and locked the door.

Sam whipped around desperately, his shackles clanking as he took in where he was and who was there. Dean, his chains heavier and shorter in order to inhibit movement, snarled and frothed.

Before him on the floor, having fallen from a rough linen wrap, was the First Blade.

Gesturing to them, Crowley said, "With these two gone, and _that_ thing gone," he indicated the Blade, "you're the only game in town."

Slowly, Metatron rose from his chair and walked around to the front of the desk. He stared at the ancient weapon. The first man-made object created for the sole purpose of killing, not for food, but for hate.

The angel moved his hands back till they rested on the reassuring solidity of his desk. "I heard about… Father had me write about…" He had privately dared to believe that a lot of Father's stories were, well, if not outright fiction, then enhanced for dramatic affect. It was during recording Father's reportage of history that the angel had fallen in love with story. While Father had never wanted – never needed!—a second draft, He did occasionally pause, his great face looking inward as if he were choosing a more… _appealing_ word. Father had been especially eager when recalling the events surrounding the weapon.

Metatron eyed the humans. "How did you get them?"

Crowley shrugged. "It helps that this one's gone insane."

Dean roared, spittle flying from his lips onto the carpet. His eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused.

"Damn you, Crowley!" yelled Sam.

"Redundant," said the demon.

Sam scowled at Metatron. He tried to move, but it seemed to the angel that the chains must be of demon make and of an unnatural weight. "You're supposed to be the new God and you're making deals with _him_?!"

Crowley spoke to Metatron over Sam's angry breaths and Deans spit-laden snarls. "The catch is, _that_ thing powers Dean to the point where he's beyond berserker. You know how deadly Cain was. We can't have a Winchester methed up on the original murder weapon. Let me take that thing to Hell and he'll revert to his regular pie-gorging, porn-slobbering squirreliness."

"But he has the Mark," said Metatron, noticing the raised, reddened shape on the human's forearm.

"Useless without the blade," Crowley assured him. He pointed at the weapon. "Plug in." He indicated the Mark. "Outlet. If one hasn't the other there's no bad hoodoo."

Metatron demanded suspiciously, "Why didn't you kill them outright?"

Crowley sighed impatiently. "First, because you wouldn't have believed they were dead without physical proof. Second, because I don't know where their miserable souls would go and whether they could still cause problems. And third, because I assumed you'd rather do it yourself."

"You're right. We do understand each other." The angel fixed murderously on the humans. "Give me the Blade."

"You don't want to touch that." Crowley's tone was no nonsense. "Your Father wouldn't have. It's pure, unmitigated evil. If I could distill that evil _I'd_ be behind that desk and you angels would be extinct."

"Don't trust him!" said Sam.

"Of course, Sam has your best interests at heart." Crowley's voice dripped sarcasm.

Metatron scrutinized the demon. "But _you_ can touch it?"

"Its purpose is to corrupt the innocent. To quote Britney Spears, I'm not that innocent. Still, no sense in taking chances." He looked around the room. With an expression that said _Ah ha!_ Crowley picked up a sizeable cigar humidor from a sideboard. He removed a cigar, ran it under his nose and grinned approvingly, pocketed it, and unceremoniously dumped the rest. He yanked his red silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. Carefully, holding the handkerchief, he picked up the Blade.

Dean's glassy eyes saw this. He roared, clanking and tripping over his shackles as he tried to lunge at Crowley. Sam called to his brother, but Dean either couldn't or wouldn't hear.

Crowley crammed the Blade into the humidor, then packed the linen wrap around it. He secured the lid shut.

"Can you destroy it?" asked Metatron skeptically.

"It's going to Mount Doom, Frodo. Well, the flames of Hell make Mount Doom look like a hipster firepit."

"But Father said, and _I_ wrote, that the Blade cannot be unmade."

"It's going to the bottom of the deepest lake of lava in Hell," said Crowley pointedly. "Who's going to dive in to retrieve it, _eh_? It'll be as good as unmade."

Dean vomited an impressive stream of profanity.

"Cheer up, Gollum," said Crowley. "Once this is gone you'll return to your normal, insufferable self. All the better for you to enjoy God's wroth with a clear head." Lugging the humidor, he opened the door and nodded to the angel. "Be right back." In a blink he vanished. The door swung shut and locked.

Metatron and Sam scanned the room warily.

With a scream Dean collapsed. He writhed on the carpet, froth dripping from his lips. He shook violently and went still.

"Dean!" As well as he could in his chains, Sam knelt beside his brother, feeling for a pulse, holding his head up so he wouldn't choke .

"The demon actually did it." Metatron heard the astonishment in his voice and cleared his throat, regaining what he believed was omnipotent bearing.

"He's dying!" Sam yelled at the angel. Dean fell silent and limp.

"Is he?" Metatron looked down at Dean and curled his lip. "Pity. Crowley was right. I want to do it myself."

Abruptly, Dean inhaled as if he'd just surfaced from the depths of the ocean. He coughed and gurgled, then relaxed in his brother's grip, breathing heavily.

"Dean?" Sam jostled him. "Dean!"

The elder brother's eyelids fluttered. They parted slowly, as if the light stung them. "Sammy?" he grunted.

A sharp knock came from the door.

Hannah entered the office. Her expression could have curdled milk. "Lord, he's back—OW!" She jumped and protectively grabbed her rear as Crowley, grinning like the cat that ate the canary, came round her, smelling of sulfur. She whacked him on the head, making him trip. He regained himself without missing a beat.

"Arse is hard as a rock," the demon declared, smirking at her. "Go eat some cannoli for devil's sake." Crowley raised his eyebrows quizzically as he looked at Dean. "SO. How is he?"

"Fuck you," Dean groaned.

"Improving already!" Crowley clapped his hands together. "Well, God, have we a deal? I give you the Winchesters, you let me live?"

"We'll bypass the traditional sealing," said Metatron with distaste.

"Agreed." Turning to the brothers, Crowley couldn't have looked happier. "Bye bye, boys. It's been a slice. Pity you won't be around to enjoy the new Paradise under the new God."

"Good!" The heated glare of hatred Sam aimed at Metatron could have melted lead. "I'd rather be dead than see _him_ ruling Heaven!"

"Salt and burn our bones!" Dean croaked. "I don't want to be even a ghost to see what he does."

A smile slithered across Metatron's lips. "But…maybe you can."

"What?" said Sam.

"Bear witness." The angel's eyes gleamed.

The glee evaporated from Crowley's face. "That would be a mistake."

Metatron crossed his arms and rubbed his thumb across his lower lip contemplatively. "I want them to see the Paradise they can't have."

Crowley stepped between the angel and the humans and looked him in the eye with urgency. "All due respect, God, but _kill them now_. I can't count the number of times I thought I was well and truly rid of one or both of them." He pointed at Sam. " _That_ one was locked in the cage with Lucifer and Michael, and yet here he is!" Aiming a finger at Dean he spat, "I had THAT one on a rotisserie! But blink an eye and Bob's your uncle, there they are with their plaid-flannel smugness, ready to _screw up_ all you've worked for _yet again_!"

Metatron's frown made Crowley back off. "I'm not of Hell or Earth, demon. I'm the new and improved _God_. I've lived among humans for over _two thousand years_. I'm wilier than any that ever breathed."

"You—" Crowley protested.

"No. _You_. My patience has expired. I'll uphold my part of the bargain. Flee to Hell and behave."

Crowley hesitated. He swallowed. He bowed to the angel, sneered at the humans as he opened the door, and vanished.

It was a moment of triumph, and Metatron was going to luxuriate in it. He clasped his hands in front of him as he stepped closer to the Winchesters, all the better to gloat over their humiliating defeat. The angel never could see what all the fuss was about the brothers. As a storyteller he knew nearly all heroes were only one quarter capability and three quarters myth.

He informed them, "I have a cell for you until I've decided what I'm going to do with you…" He edited himself. " _To_ you."

Sam's nostrils flared. "So you're going to be the new God." His voice was sodden with contempt.

"Not going to be. _Am_."

"Yeah? And who's going to know about you?"

Metatron laughed. And this one was supposed to be the more intelligent of the two! "Everyone!"

"Everyone on Earth?"

"Heaven _and_ Earth!"

Sam snickered. "How you going to do that? Scribble on clay tablets?"

Metatron sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms again. He decided this looked insecure and defensive, so he nonchalantly put his hands in the pockets of his smoking jacket. He was certain Tom Wolfe had had that pose on the dust jacket of _Bonfire of the Vanities_. "I'll go forth among mankind. Performing miracles. Inspiring awe and devotion."

"The whole world? What about the other gods?"

Metatron blinked. "Other gods?"

"People who believe in other gods," Sam corrected quickly.

"I'll perform miracles among the peoples of the world. I'll shine with such incandescent divinity that the memory of other beliefs will blow away like dust."

Acidly, Sam said, "Why not go the whole nine yards and be crucified too?"

Metatron's hand moved swiftly in his anger. Sam was thrown across the room to crash into a substantial oak bookcase, shattering the case's glass doors.

In a raspy whisper, Metatron said, "There are certain…topics...it's best not to bring up with me."

Sam shook off the glass shards and dragged himself away, having only a few minor cuts. On his back on the carpet, his eyes shut, Dean chuckled. When both Sam and the angel stared at him, he giggled and began singing creakily.

"Metatron… superstar…"

"What?" The angel couldn't believe the gall.

"Dean," Sam warned, crawling over to him.

"...Do you think you're what you think you are?" Dean hefted himself to a sitting position, his chains pooling between his crossed legs. He giggled like a kid.

"You're singing," said Metatron, disbelieving.

"He's been damaged," Sam stated, frowning.

Dean's voice, a little stronger, sang, "Metatron, Metatron, who are you what have you sacrificed…" He shook his head. "Wait…doesn't rhyme."

"Are you _mocking_ me?" breathed the angel.

"No!" cried Sam. "It's from a musical! About…a brother of yours."

Dean crawled on his hands and knees to Metatron, gazed up at him with blood-shot eyes, and sang, badly,

"Ev'ry time I look at you  
I don't understand  
Why you let the things you did  
Get so out of hand  
You'd have managed better  
If you'd had it planned  
Now why'd you choose such a backward time  
And such a strange land?"

Metatron wanted to back away, but the desk was behind him. The human poked at the toe of the angel's shoe, then sang,

"If you'd come today  
You could have reached a whole nation.  
Israel in 4 BC  
Had no mass communication…"

Dean trailed off as if another thought superseded the rest of the lyrics.

"His brain's cooked," said Sam, miserably. "Dean…"

Dean looked up at Metatron again and pointed once more, for emphasis. "Mass communication. T'get it all out there. Reach 'em all. You need the Internet."

"The what?"

"It's faster." Blinking as if he was slowly waking up, Dean stated, "Do miracles. Post about it on fan pages. Fan forums. Tumblrs! Tweet!" He repeatedly poked the angel's shoe. "You gotta tweet, God!"

Metatron looked at Sam with utter confusion, slipping away from Dean as he did and getting his desk between himself and the lunatic. "What is he…?"

"Don't you know about the Internet?" asked Sam with a laugh in his voice.

"Of course I do!" Metatron huffed as he sat. "I lived on Earth! I just never had reason to make use of it. I'm an angel! I can move at the speed of light! I can _think_ faster than that! Why would I muddle my mind with... _whatever_ it is that people burp up on those screens?"

Dean muttered, "You could rule…the Internet."

"Don't tempt him!" Sam cried.

Metatron swiveled his chair and flicked on the intercom. "Hannah. I need a computer."

Her voice crackled over the line. "Lord?"

"A P.C. A laptop!" When he was met with dead air he said, "A personal computer!"

After a pause Hannah responded, "We haven't such a thing, Lord."

"I'm aware of that! Get me one!"

"How do we do that, Lord?"

Metatron cut off the intercom and swiveled around again. He barked at Sam, "Do you have one?"

"Crowley took ours when he caught us."

Metatron flicked on the speaker. "Get me Crowley."

"On angel radio, Lord?"

"No! In person!"

"We…don't know how to contact—"

Metatron turned it off and shot an order at Sam. "I see that damnable cell phone device in your back pocket! Call me that demon!" When Sam didn't act the angel snapped, "Don't pretend you don't have him on speed dial! Call him!"

Resentfully, the younger brother thumb-dialed. After the click of a pick-up, he said, "Crowley—"

"Why are you alive?" said the deep voice irritably.

Metatron came from around the desk and grabbed the cell. "Get up here immediately!"

There was a knock. The angel tossed the cell on the floor and opened the door.

Hannah stood there, her face barely containing fury. "He's arrived, Lord."

Crowley walked past her. Her glare followed him like lasers. "I meant that as a compliment, darling." He winked and she slammed the door behind her. He smoothly reported, "I don't actually fancy her, but sexual harassment just baffles her so satisfyingly. I like hearing her wires crackle and smoke." He looked at Sam and Dean for a few seconds, then addressed Metatron. "Please tell me you want me to kill them for you."

"No. I want their computer."

Crowley blinked. "Say again?"

"Bring me their personal computer and show me how to use …use…"

"Social media," said Dean.

"Social media!" said Metatron, as if he'd remembered on his own.

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "You mean… Facebook? Twitter?"

"Exactly," said Metatron, though he had no idea.

"But you're God."

"And I want everyone to know!" The angel returned to his chair. "You _do_ know how to use the Internet, demon?"

Crowley's chuckled and grunted simultaneously. "Image Google 'Rule 34' and you'll know that I own it."

Metatron pointed at the door. "Get me that computer! NOW!"

Crowley put his right hand on his chest and bowed. "Your wish is my command." He left through the door. After several seconds Metatron, Sam and Dean heard what sounded like something solid being slammed against the foyer wall. With a gesture Metatron opened the door and Crowley came flying in. He hurled into the front on the angel's desk and crumpled onto the carpet.

Hannah's eyes glowed with white light. She curtly pulled the doors shut.

"Right." The demon got to his feet, still clutching Sam's laptop. "That time I pushed it too far." He set the computer in front of Metatron.

"Hey!" Dean tried to get on his feet, but feigned being too weak. "That's ours!"

Sam stated defiantly, "It's locked and we're never telling you the password!"

The demon sneered. "What do you think this is, an episode of _Sherlock_?" He opened the computer and touched it. In an instant it was on and connected to the Internet.

Crowley rubbed hands together gleefully. He grinned at Metatron, whose eyes widened with eagerness.

"Now," said Crowley. "Let's create some accounts."

* * *

Gabriel's large laptop was positioned on the coffee table. The archangel sat on the shag rug, his fingers flying expertly across the keys. Behind him Jesus and Mary were on the couch, watching with amazement, while Joseph reclined in the La-Z-Boy, watching Australian rugby on the TV. Castiel stood behind the couch, intently following his brother's actions.

"Blast." Gabriel shook his head. "Can't connect here."

"Heaven has no free wii fi?" said Joseph dryly. "I'm shocked."

Castiel asked Jesus, "Why haven't you been provided with your own computer, Lord?"

Jesus shrugged. "Me, being half human, the angels were afraid I'd cruise porn."

Everyone looked at him.

"I wouldn't!" cried Jesus. "Nobody gets, like, I'm free from all urges and temptations of the flesh! Except, y'know, _taste_. Gimme a Pop-Tart, that's as good as sex to me."

They returned their focus on the computer.

"Frosted Cherry Pop-Tarts," said Jesus. "In case anyone was gonna make, like, a snack run. Or Ding-Dongs."

Gabriel shook his head as the computer screen assured him that there was nothing to connect to.

Mary leaned forward. "Let me see, dear." She lightly touched the screen. In an instant the start page for Mozilla Firefox sprang up. She turned it back around to the archangel. "There you go."

"Fantastic! What did you do?"

"Blessed it." Mary smiled with demure satisfaction. "God didn't give me much power, but I can do _that_. So what's that you're doing there?"

"Mary," said Joseph, channel-surfing, "you can stop being Minnesotan now."

"Please," Jesus seconded.

"I like it." Mary settled into her seat. "It feels nice."

Castiel recalled past adventures. Most of Earth had a sameness to him, but a few places stood out. "I like Minnesota too. Especially loons. They are soulful and mournful but very good parents."

The others stared.

"Would anyone care to hear a loon call? I'm quite adept at it."

"I think I heard a loon call just now," Gabriel muttered, clicking keys.

Mary peered at the screen over the archangel's shoulder. "What's that you're typing, Gabriel?"

Gabriel rubbed his lips together, but it was impossible to lie to the Mother of the Lord. Instead he avoided what she was asking and told another truth. "Uh...I'm signing in to my Twitter account."

"I see that. What's that name on your Profile Page there? I assume that's _your_ Profile Page?"

Gabriel muttered, "That's my Twitter name."

Mary whapped Gabriel upside the head with a _Watch Tower_.

"It's rude, dear," she stated.

"Yes, ma'am." He rubbed his head, mumbling, "I keep getting hit on today, and not in the way I want to be."

"Mom, look, Gab's lived as a human for, like, over two millennia. He's gotten used to passing for human."

"That's no excuse to be ruled by the flesh, dear." She asked Gabriel, "Who _is_ your vessel, anyway?"

Gabriel wished lying was an option. "I….forgot."

Mary swatted him with the _Watch Tower._

"Mom!" cried Jesus, taking the pamphlet from her. "You can't keep whacking my friends or they won't want to come over."

Mary said to Gabriel disapprovingly, "You're as smug now as you were when I first met you."

The archangel paused. He looked over his shoulder at Mary. "How was 'Hail, thou art highly favored, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women' smarmy?"

"It was the way you said it. And your expression."

"Expression?"

"You wiggled your eyebrows."

"Dude!" said Jesus.

"Gabriel!" squawked Castiel, shocked.

"I didn't!" He conceded, "I…may have. It was a long time ago! I forget!"

"Archangels never forget," stated Castiel disapprovingly.

Gabriel shrugged and smiled at the eternal teenage girl. "I'm sorry, but you were hot."

"DUDE!" said Jesus.

"GABRIEL!" said Cas.

" _Were_?" said Mary.

"Don't mind me," said Joseph, watching _Reina de Corazones,_ "I'm just her husband, not that I serve any particular function."

Gabriel clicked to open his Twitter account. "Now we'll see if Megatwit takes the bait."

* * *

Crowley said, "You need a name. "

"A name?" said Metatron. The demon stood beside him as he was seated at his desk, looking at Twitter's CREATE AN ACCOUNT screen.

"Remember, the whole world will know you by whatever name you choose. Select one that represents the image you want to project."

Dean, sitting on the floor with his shackles, grumbled loudly, "How about douche deity?"

"ShortAndScruffy pathetic," Sam suggested, sitting beside his brother as Metatron's audience.

"FullofIt craptastic."

"Jerkwad Heaven."

Metatron peered ominously over the top of the computer. "You are on very short leashes, and believe me, I can make them much shorter and tighter around those offensive windpipes." To Crowley he said, "It's simple. ThyLordGodMarv."

The Winchesters giggled.

"Seriously?" said Crowley.

Metatron snorted as if his feathers had been ruffled. "That is who and what I am! And by that shall the world know me! Do it, demon!"

Crowley moved the computer closer to him and typed. He read the screen. "They want a mobile phone number for your account. Have one, do you, God?"

* * *

Gabriel watched what came up on the screen. "HA! The King of Hell came through with the Megaphone's account name! Hot damn!" he glanced at Mary, "…so to speak. Let's get this party started!" He squinted at the name of the new Twitter member. "Wow. Did he really choose that? What a dick!"

Castiel whapped him with a Chick Cartoon Bible tract.

"Thank you," said Mary.

"Glad to be of service, ma'am." He said to Gabriel, firmly, "You're a guest in the apartment of the Lord, Gabriel. Remember that."

"It's leaving quite an impression on me," sighed Gabriel, rubbing his head again.

Jesus scooted forward in order to get a better look at Gabriel's Twitter profile page. "Dude. Whoa! You've got three-hundred and fifty thousand Followers!"

Castiel looked at the second screen the archangel put up. "And two million Facebook friends!"

Gabriel explained, "When you're immortal you got a lot of time to kill." He grinned over his shoulder at them. "Besides, I'm charming as fuc-" He focused on Mary. "I'm the bee's knees."

"Who _are_ all these people?" asked Mary.

Gabriel responded, proudly, "Mostly fans of the _Supernatural_ books, as well as a wide variety of geeks, nerds, cosplayers, deviant artists, fan vidders, etcetera."

"Do you _know_ them?" asked Mary.

"The whole point of social media is to be deeply intimate with total strangers."

"I thought that was the reason Sodom and Gomorrah went kaput," said Joseph.

Gabriel set to work, linking the same post between Twitter, Facebook and his Tumblr.

_dick4days_ _When u see the name ThyLordGodMarv Follow, Friend & add him immediately._

Within minutes hundreds of replies asked the same question.

_& then?_

_dick4days:_ _Give it a grace period_ ["So to speak," he said to Castiel, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. When they didn't respond to the joke he continued typing. ] _then do what you do best._

Thousands of responses asked the same thing.

_what we do best? really?_

_dick4days:_ _Really. mwa ha ha_

An Internet flock of tens of thousands joined in. _mwa ha ha!_

_mwa ha ha ha!_

_mwa ha ha ha HAW!_

This went on for so long that everyone knew that, of a sort, Gabriel had an army.


	5. Tweet the Whirlwind.

Metatron was sulking.

Sam and Dean sat on the floor, the angel having declared that the furniture was off limits. Sam's collar was red with the word MOOSE in white capital letters. Dean's collar was blue with the word SQUIRREL. A small gold bell hung from each of the collars. On the floor were sparkly tinsel balls and catnip mice. Crowley had informed Metatron that these were the perfect details for complete humiliation of the angel's new "pets." Metatron took the demon's word for this, having never had anything to do with any animal that couldn't speak a human language. He'd once tried to have a conversation with an African parrot that spoke English, but he found the bird's uninhibited and indiscriminate defecation to be thoroughly disgusting. After that he avoided any creature that didn't have a civilized control of bodily functions. Even the chimp who spoke American Sign Language refused to converse with him and had tried to smear him with dung. Metatron was certain the problem wasn't _him_.

It had been three days since Metatron had launched his social media accounts. The results were an unqualified disappointment. He'd demanded Crowley's return. The demon had quite happily and obediently complied.

Metatron scowled at his number of Followers on Twitter, which was a total of 1. That one was Crowley. "Why aren't people coming to my Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr and Instagram?"

"Because people are allergic to dumb ass." Dean, now acting completely normal, tugged at his collar. "Hey, the rule is there should be enough room to put two fingers between the neck and the collar!"

"I can kill you anytime," Metatron reminded him.

"A litter box?" Sam looked from the box in the corner to Crowley. "Your idea?"

Crowley smiled with fond loathing. "You see any restrooms up top here?"

"Oh, if it'll cease your whining!" Metatron gestured. The litter box was replaced by a door in the corner with the word MEN in gold.

"Dude, that's sexist," said Sam.

The angel stared barbs at him. Sam got up and hurried to the restroom.

"I'm chaffin' here!" said Dean, rubbing the skin under his collar.

"There's no toilet paper!" Sam's voice called through the door. Metatron flicked a finger. "Oh. Thanks. Pink? Is that supposed to balance out the sexism?"

"Can I drink out of something that isn't ceramic and doesn't say KITTY?" said Dean.

"Only urinals?" said Sam's voice. " _Only?_ "

" _Shut up!"_ Metatron snarled, his hair bristling. He pointed at Dean. "And no use trying to sneak out on your hands and knees again! I've sealed that door! No angel, demon or human can enter or exit except by my leave!"

Dean stuck out his tongue.

"Stop listening to the bugs." Crowley calmly redirected the angel's attention to the computer screen. "People aren't coming because they don't know you yet. You have to make your Godly Presence known."

"How do I do that?" Metatron fussed with his ascot.

Crowley whacked his hand. When the angel glared at him he indicated the keyboard. "Tweet."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I showed you." The demon pointed at an example on an account he'd chosen at random. " _That._ "

Metatron wrinkled his nose. "How am I supposed to communicate with only 140 characters? I'm a storyteller!"

"A good writer can adapt to any form," said Sam as he came out of the bathroom.

"Oh, shut up," Metatron grumbled. "What do you know?"

Sam sat down on the rug. "Hel _lo_ , Stanford University."

"So what?" said Metatron resentfully. He'd wished he'd had the forethought to ensconce himself at a major university for all those years.

"It's more higher education than _you_ ever had."

" _I_ had the _Word of God_!"

"So use that to Tweet," said Sam.

Metatron sputtered with frustration. He pushed aside the urge to kill the humans. He was determined to wait until he saw their smugness wiped out by the Glory of His New Kingdom.

"Even if you go out there saying you're God no one's gonna believe you're the real God." Dean shifted his weight and heard a sharp squeak. He lifted himself, grabbed the rubber mouse and threw it across the room. It hit a wall and squawked.

"Why wouldn't they believe me?" said Metatron, suspiciously.

Dean snorted. "Any idea how many Gods there are on Twitter?"

"And Facebook," said Sam.

"And Tumblr."

"And Livejournal."

"And Instagram."

"That's blasphemy!" Metatron cried. "How can they claim to be what they're not?"

"On the Internet nobody knows you're a god," said Sam.

Dean added, "It's called anonymity. The 'Net couldn't survive without it."

"That's dishonest." The angel's low opinion of Father's favorites was forever being justified. "That's misrepresentation."

" _That's_ social media," said Crowley, "to its very core. So you have to prove you're the bona fide article."

"How?"

"Do what you were going to do anyway. Work little miracles here and there."

Sam laughed. "Miracles? _Him?_ He doesn't have enough power."

"What's he gonna do?" Dean leaned back on his elbows and smirked. "Bring a dead houseplant back to life?"

Metatron set his jaw. He shoved up the sleeves of his cardigan. "Who's in the most need of a miracle?" he asked Crowley.

"On Earth? Throw a dart."

"Never mind location. What miracle would be the most impressive?"

"Make the White Sox win the World Series," said Dean.

Metatron looked at Crowley for confirmation. He shook his head.

"It's been done. I've got the contract." The demon consulted his wristwatch, which operated on a system of decades. "Ah, looks like it comes due in 2015!" With the tone of the businessman he was, Crowley said, "God, consider your audience. You want to appeal to those who are desperate for divine intervention."

"Congress," said Sam.

"Those who will instantaneously embrace a new God who actively acknowledges their short, sad existences. Humans who, because of the pathetic futility of their lives, will flock to your banner without hesitation."

Metatron had been catching up on news sites. "People in the Middle East."

"That's the _last_ testaments," Crowley reminded him. "For your new, _new_ testament let's take instruction from Dean's previous insane gurgling of several days ago. Who has the largest population of people with the easiest access to social media, with a high enough standard of living so they have the leisure time to putz about on said social media, Twittering and Facebooking their lives away? Hmm?"

Metatron thought. "Canada?"

Crowley sighed. "It also helps if a majority of this country's population are rabidly religious, in the Judeo-Christian brand."

Metatron beamed. " _America_."

"The United fucking States. A miracle there, even one which barely requires effort, and you'll have so many Friends you'll break Facebook."

"You're insulting the intelligence of Americans!" said Dean.

"Not possible," said Crowley.

Sam said, "You'd have to predict it beforehand. Anyone can claim to have done it after the fact."

"Thank you for helping!" snapped Dean.

"Sorry, just a thought."

"Good! Fine!" The angel rubbed his hands together with happy anticipation. "What would have the most emotional impact?"

Disgust shaped Crowley's expression. "Children and pets." His nose wrinkled. " _Babies_."

Metatron licked his lips as he thought aloud. "Madonna and child, _of course_. A mother with a small, helpless child."

"And a puppy," Dean suggested.

"Dude!" said Sam.

" _What_? I had a thought, too!"

"I can find those." The Scribe of God tapped his forefinger to his lips, his face brightening as the ideas flooded in. "I can create a scenario of dire, inescapable danger and, by the Power of the Word, save them." He slid his chair a few inches to his left, so that he was aligned with his typewriter.

"I don't get it," said Dean, though he was fully aware of the power the angel was tapped into. The only question was, where was the Angel Tablet hidden? The race was to discover that before he and Sam were killed. "You're claiming you can create—"

Haughtily, Metatron declared, "Anything I write _becomes_. I _am_ the Word of God now."

"You'd put people in danger for your ambition?" Sam asked angrily.

Metatron looked at him with momentary confusion. "For Heaven on Earth? _Pffft_ , you've a limited imagination! What are a few mortal lives compared to building the Golden City on a Hill? Do you think I can't do it?"

Dean said, contemptuously, "Last I heard you're a pencil-pusher. You're the dweeb other angels bounce dodge balls off of."

The eldest Winchester was thrown against a bookcase. He fell to the floor, books tumbling on top of him.

"I need to stop doing that," said Metatron tetchily. "It ruins the ambience." With another gesture the books were set right. Dean groaned and swore.

Metatron flexed his fingers. "The Bible Belt includes Tornado Alley, as I recall."

The clack of the typewriter keys filled the room. Sam, Dean and Crowley quickly exchanged glances. Crowley filled a tumbler and sat down for the show. Sam and Dean waited with dread. This part of the plan they couldn't anticipate completely. They just hoped no innocents would suffer if things went awry.

* * *

Erin Bunterman, top meteorologist for Oklahoma City's News Channel 4, spoke with a tone that drove home the immediacy and severity of her warning.

"Folks, the wall cloud outside Edmond has produced a wedge-shaped, violent tornado the like of which I haven't seen in my career. Radar and Chopper 4 report it is easily half a mile wide, and growing, with a debris cloud of over a mile. You need to grab your family, your friends, your pets and head underground or to an F4 storm cellar or a safe room _immediately_. This tornado is shredding everything in its path, and if you're in its path you need to get in shelter _now_ or you need _to get out of its way_."

* * *

The car should not have died.

The Chevy dealer had assured Jenni Lamb that the 2014 Chevrolet Traverse was _the_ perfect family car, absolutely reliable in over a hundred degrees to below zero conditions. "Starts every time!" he'd proclaimed.

The two-month-old car was not starting now. Here, in the middle of Highway 77 North, the battery was utterly dead, as if the car didn't have one at all.

Jenni Lamb unlocked her door and the wind yanked it from her grasp. As she pulled open the back door she tried not to hyperventilate at the sight in her peripheral vision. She unbuckled Bethany from her car seat, clutched her to her chest, and grabbed the puppy's carrier.

They hadn't even named the puppy. They'd adopted him on the spur of the moment just that morning. The thought had popped into her head. A dog for Bethany to grow up with. The pudgy little black lab at the shelter had been so happy to see them, and he and Bethany had fallen in love immediately. It was meant to be.

Jenni had been on the phone with her sister, Missy, when the tornado siren cut in.

They had no shelter. Her husband Dan was in Atlanta on business. He'd planned to build an F4 shelter into the floor of the garage, once work slowed down. Missy had snapped, "See, _this_ is why I live in an earth-sheltered home! And you laughed at it! Get over here! _Now!_ "

They would have made it with time to spare. Missy lived only twenty miles away, and the tornado was behind them, heading south.

But the car died and the tornado turned. _It turned._

The sky was sickly yellow, except for the wall cloud the gray-green color of brackish water. Bethany squalled, the puppy yelped, but Jenni could barely hear them over the roar. There was nothing but open fields on both sides of the highway. There weren't even ditches or low-lying spaces to lie in. The trees were far away, and, judging by those being torn to pieces and flying into the air like broken bones, the woods was no protection.

Jenni faced the thing moving steadily up the highway. Her blonde hair ripped from its headband and tossed madly in her face. The wind threatened to pull the carrier from her hand, so she put it down, securing her feet on either side of it to keep it from rolling away. Even still, it tipped on its side. The puppy yowled as if it knew they had to run, to flee.

"Dear God." Jenni's mouth moved but the sound was sucked away. The wind tore the tears from her cheeks.

* * *

Darrell Massey stomped on the gas of KFOR's Storm Tracker van. He and Augie, the cameraman, had been rushing to the stalled car Chopper 4 had spotted and reported live.

"White Suburban stopped on Highway 77, just north of you. Mother and, dear Christ, a small child and…and a pet carrier. Can you get there?"

It was live across the Central states, and now picked up by the nationals, across network and cable news and streaming on the Internet. Millions of people watched the feed from Chopper 4 and the Storm Tracker's camera as the news van raced to within twenty yards of the stranded family. They witnessed the van stop dead in its tracks, as if some giant hand had reached down from Heaven and killed it with a touch.

Darrell Massey yelled into the headset for Chopper 4, but like every electronic device in the van it was dead. Not even static. He glanced back at Augie, the mechanical whiz.

The Aussie shrugged. "I got nuttin', mate. Except this." He pointed at the red-light indicating that his steady-cam, Gracie, lived. He set it on his right shoulder and looked through the eyepiece. "Gracie's not ready to say g'night." With the sigh of a veteran of many tight spots who figured this was his last one, he said, "Howzabout we go earn posthumous Pulitzers?"

The rain pelted Massey's face, making his dark skin look like varnished ebony. With difficulty he peeled off his jacket and flung it around Jenni and the child. Augie's red-checked bandana tore from his curly brown hair. He grabbed it on the wing and used it to wipe the camera lens.

They didn't speak because nothing could have been heard above the squall. Not knowing whether there was still a satellite feed or if he was simply recording what might soon be destroyed beyond recovery, Augie framed the reporter, the mother, the child frightened to silence, and the terrified shining eyes of a puppy in the foreground of a monster tornado the like of which he'd never seen. It had developed and touched down in minutes above the highway, and kept its path on it, not touching a farmhouse or car dealership along the way as it relentlessly aimed for the stalled vehicles and the helpless passengers.

"Pray with me," Jenni asked Darrell. A lapsed Baptist, he hesitated, then nodded. Not knowing what else to say, Jenni held Bethany tight to her and recited with Darrell, "Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name…"

In North America millions of viewers, watching in bars, restaurants, dorms, coffee shops, anywhere there were TVs and the Internet, stopped what they were doing and put their hands to their mouths, unable to look away. Traffic halted, factory lines shut down, as everyone within walking distance of a screen of any size was transfixed. They were riveted as the monster tornado slowly bore down on the praying reporter and mother encasing the three year old crying in terror and the puppy silent with it. They saw the lethal debris swirling, the air darkening with dirt, grass, chunks of asphalt.

Across the screen of every electronic device words appeared simultaneously with a voice.

"FEAR NOT."

Darrell and Jenni's heads jerked upward. The voice had reverberated around them, clear and calm as if whoever had spoken stood there with them. Augie's camera searched for the source of the voice.

A man appeared. There had been nothing but the grass snapping back and forth, and the next second he stood, smiling at them.

A simultaneous gasp rushed through millions of viewers.

The man's hair and beard were slightly gray. He was of medium height, with the kind of paunch that comes from middle-age and unenthusiastic exercise. His beige cable-knit cardigan had leather elbow patches, his Oxford shirt was light blue, and he wore khakis. He looked like a Humanities professor. Lines crinkled at the corners of his gray eyes as he beamed at the doomed people.

The wind didn't touch him.

Bethany calmed immediately, staring at him with instincts not yet dulled by cynicism. The puppy made a noise and flattened himself in the carrier. Augie aimed his camera at him. Jenni and Darrell's eyes widened as the man could easily be heard.

"You're under God's protection. Have faith."

Jenni saw the tornado coming on behind the man, who seemed oblivious. "W-what?"

Metatron turned and walked toward the tornado.

"Get away from there!" Darrell yelled.

"Hardly matters," said Augie matter-of-factly. "There's no place to run."

The stranded people and the world-wide audience held their collective breath as the man lifted his right hand. The debris cloud was all but on him, the sky black, the funnel a monster that ate the world, yet everyone heard him speak with commanding resonance.

"By God's Word, I still the whirlwind and melt the clouds."

The tornado halted. It bucked and twisted. The rope of wind frayed as if it were being pulled apart. Debris plummeted to the earth, but that which looked as if it would hit the people or the vehicles were flung aside and struck the fields. The tornado shredded and melted into the calming air like cotton candy in the rain. The few roiling clouds shrank back into the sky, smoothed to a soft current, and stilled.

The man swept his upraised hands apart. The clouds faded. Sunlight fell on the astonished, upturned faces of the people and the camera lens.

The man nodded as if he was well pleased and turned, walking back to the staring reporter, mother and child. He bent down and patted Bethany's hair, shining gold in the sun.

Jenni's whisper was just loud enough for the camera to capture. "Who are you?"

"For now…I am Thy Lord God Marv." He clasped his hands in front and grinned at them. "Friend me!"

He vanished.

* * *

"Did he say 'Friend me?'" Sam asked Dean and Crowley.

* * *

"Did he say 'Friend me?'" Jesus asked everyone in the room.

Gabriel signed into his accounts and typed quickly.

_dick4days:_ _That's your cue_.

* * *

No one needed a cue. The Internet went crazy as people Googled thylordgodmarv and Google crashed in minutes. Across network and cable television, commercial and public radio, experts in meteorology, supernatural phenomenon, hoaxes, theology, magic tricks, CG illusions, mass hallucinations and government conspiracies were thrown into studios and barraged with questions about what the world had witnessed.

Jenni, Bethany and their puppy, Marv, appeared on every talk show and morning news program, along with Darrell. "There was no escape," Jenni said on _Good Morning America_ , "and we prayed and he was there. Do I know if he..if he was, is God? He was our Savior, that's all I can tell you." When asked if he thought the man was God, Darrell said, "Well, if he's God, I'm surprised. I thought he'd be taller." That always got a laugh.

Hundreds of thousands found _thylordgodmarv_ on social media and Followed and Friended him (he accepted all Friend requests), some joining Instagram and Tumblr for the first time. For days the national conversation was about had everyone seen the same thing, what had happened, how had it happened, with debates from school lunchrooms to corporate executive meetings.

Augie, the photographer, only did one interview, and that was for PBS' News Hour. "Not sure exactly what I saw," he said. "I witnessed it through a camera lens - we all did but three people and a dog - which contrary to present opinion can distort reality. Looking over what I recorded, I want more analysis of the scene, of the meteorological data."

The tabloids and FOX News Commentators declared Augie to be a Godless Secular Humanist, spewing his Pinko-Commie-Socialist-Aussie doubt in order to turn Americans away from what was obviously a modern act of Divine Intervention.

Under pressure, KFOR requested that Augie "explore other employment opportunities." Augie shrugged and handed in his resignation. He was immediately hired by the BBC and began filming a documentary with Sir Richard Attenborough about the endangered Florida manatee. It was his dream job, so the cameraman would wink sarcastically and say maybe God worked in mysterious ways after all.

Augie wasn't alone in his skepticism. Just as those who believed had feared, one skeptic could poison the whole barrel.

* * *

Metatron strolled into his heavenly office with a triumphant smile. He'd made a tour of North America, watching unseen the media's coverage of The Miracle. He patted himself on the back. It had been so easy! Locating the young mother with the little child, then setting up an adorable puppy to be abandoned at a local Humane Society, whispering the idea of a pet for the child in the mother's ear during her twilight sleep (he was annoyed that he couldn't do outright mind control). A tornado was a piece of cake. That weather chasers would rush to the scene was inevitable. And the Winchesters had called him a dweeb!

"What's the stats?" Metatron asked Crowley.

Sam, sitting on the oxblood leather couch which he wasn't supposed to be on, sniggered. "You haven't proven anything."

Metatron wasn't sure he'd heard the human correctly. "I was on camera!" When Sam and Dean rolled their eyes, he stated, "I was on _Good Morning America!_ "

"You weren't," said Sam. "Film footage of you was. There's a difference."

"Shows how little you think of us," said Dean, "that you thought we humans would fall for one little trick that David Copperfield could've pulled off."

"What does a _Dickens_ character have to do with this?"

Dean blinked. " _What_ Dickens character?"

Metatron turned to the King of Hell. "It's impossible that anyone who witnessed that would doubt!"

Crowley set down his tumbler. "Ah. Well." He gestured to the computer.

The Scribe of God sat at his desk and read as Crowley scrolled through the many articles, posts, commentaries and essays explaining all the scenarios in which The Miracle was staged. The kinder theories suggested it was meant to bring people back to church. The worst screamed that it was a mass hallucination created by chips secretly implanted into the populace's brains by government agents disguised as dental hygienists.

Metatron gaped. He sputtered, "Those ignorant… " He slapped his desk with his palm. "I need to do another!" He shifted his chair over to his typewriter with a loud squeak. "Earthquakes! Fire from the sky!"

"Oh yeah, a pencil pusher can do that," snorted Dean, tossing his furry mouse toy and catching it.

Frustrated, Metatron snapped at Crowley. "You're an expert on what humans fear. What will get their attention more than anything else? A plague of locusts? Rivers turning to blood?"

"I keep telling you, O God, that you're stuck in the Old Testament. No one's impressed with cover songs, they want originals. You need to do something that will impress humans in _this_ day and age."

"And? _So?_ What do I do?" Metatron demanded urgently.

Crowley touched the laptop. The electricity died and the screen went black.

"Got your attention, didn't it?" said Crowley.

* * *

The mysterious press release appeared simultaneously to all media in North America.

Live from the CNN news studio, Anderson Cooper was the first to report, "Thylordgodmarv has announced that in order to prove he is indeed God he'll, quote, demonstrate his power, unquote, at twelve P.M., Eastern Standard Time, on Monday, across the United States."

Castiel, Gabriel, Jesus, Mary and Joseph were watching.

Cas squinted. "Why only across the United States?"

Gabriel took the sucker from his mouth. "I'm thinking what the other gods told us is true. He doesn't have the ability to effect places where we're not numero uno in the hearts and minds of the populace."

"He could still impress those who are of different faiths."

Gabe spoke around his sucker. "If Crowley's on his game, and I'm betting he is, he's making sure Metatwit doesn't push too hard."

"Why?" Castiel, though once the captain of a Heavenly garrison and a warrior, knew on-the-ground strategy better than more subtle psychological maneuvers.

Gabriel stuck his sucker on a coaster and leaned back against the couch. "Obviously you've never played poker."

"I've seen the Winchesters do it. I don't understand its relevance to this situation."

"There's a big surprise. The point, bro, is not Metatron playing to the humans on earth. It's Crowley playing to Metatron. You let your opponent think he's got a better hand than he does. But if you push it, he may catch on. America is a big enough hand for this game. If he gets greedy and goes for the whole world, our previously unknown neighbors might get irritated."

Castiel's eyes narrowed as he muttered, "Our neighbors…" The angel was by now fairly used to his world view being shattered. Every time he had managed to piece it back together, incorporating the new. The other gods, their other worlds, now had to be considered. Castiel watched the news and thought about that.

* * *

Crowley told Metatron, "Listen, America's a big enough hand for this game. Once you've won over the Yanks the rest of the world will know you _are_ God. "

Metatron eyed the demon with distrust. "Why would they be influenced by America alone? I thought the rest of the world hated America."

"They do! As if that matters! Do you know how many McDonalds and Starbucks there are plastered over the surface of the earth? The rest of the nations may _hate_ America, but they'll suck at its teat all the same!"

"Eeeww," said Sam and Dean.

Crowley tossed a glare over his shoulder at them. "Whatever visual image you have in your tiny forebrains is not my fault." To Metatron he said, "So let's do some positive promo before we launch the show."

_I thylordgodmarv have no intention of causing distress and fright. I merely wish to assuage your doubt and skepticism with a universal expe_

Metatron huffed. "Damn 140 character limit!"

"Write it on Facebook, then link it on Twitter," said Sam.

"Then repost on your tumblr," said Dean.

"And Livejournal," Sam added.

"Don't forget an Instagram selfie with a shit-eating grin to go with it," said Dean.

"Stop thinking Faulkner," Crowley told the angel. "Think haiku. Brevity is the soul of short attention spans."

Metatron snorted. "God having to dumb down to his flock. Humph! This world _needs_ me to put it right."

_thylordgodmarv: Those who doubt & fear, harken! On noon this Monday I will beneficently demonstrate my Divine Hand._

"Harken?" said Dean.

"Beneficently?" said Sam.

"Did I ask you?" snapped Metatron.

* * *

Castiel, sitting on the couch behind Gabriel, who was seated cross-legged on the floor with the laptop on the coffee-table in front of him, read the "tweets" from Metatron over his brother's shoulder.

"How is this going to defeat Metatron?" he asked.

"Look at it this way," said Gabriel while monitoring five different screens. "If you want to bring down a huge bridge, whaddaya do?"

"You wave it away."

Gabe rolled his eyes. "Yup, everything can be _waved away_. _How_ much time have you spent with humans?"

"What time I've spent was as a warrior and not someone who dodged the draft by fleeing to Canada, aka Earth—"

Gabriel laughed in pleased astonishment. "Whoa! How do you know to use Vietnam as an appropriate metaphor—"

"- I haven't had the luxury of studying the human condition, as until recently I was trying to keep order in Heaven. And as a warrior I also don't have the luxury of not getting to the point."

"Point made." Gabe turned so he could look his brother in his serious face. "You weaken a bridge's supports. Then its own weight brings it down. Capiche?"

"How does that apply here?"

Mary rumpled the angels' hair. "Oh, now you two put your little squabble aside." She sat on the couch nest to Castiel and nodded at the TV. "He's about to do it."

"I made popcorn," said Joseph, holding out red and white striped paper bags packed with popcorn and dripping with butter. "It was no trouble. Don't all of you thank me at once."

The Holy Family and the two angels gave all their attention to CNN.

* * *

At 11:59 AM, Eastern Standard Time, sixteen year old Maynard "Mupload" McClure was oblivious to the vibrant, hyperkinetic signs surrounding him in Duffy Square in New York City. His head was down as he stood in front of the bronze statue of George M. Cohen, whoever he was, and texted his cousin, Ralphie.

_Tornado was legit CG all setup no1 saw it REALLY. Totes hoax. Bet promo 4 movie called thylordgodmarv_

His phone died.

In one second every light and LED billboard died. The traffic stopped in place, the vehicles dead. Drivers, cabbies, and the police pounded in futility on their silent horns. People poured from darkened theaters, stores, and restaurants and filled Times Square, scanning in panic for how and why the city of New York was brought to a halt.

They couldn't have known it, but at the exact moment the same thing happened across the entire United States.

Suddenly smartphone screens and the massive billboards flicked to life. The multitude gaped at the face smiling at them. It was the face of the person who'd appeared before the raging tornado.

Maynard and the thousands around him stared at the multitude of faces of all sizes, in every direction. As the man spoke a voice boomed from every speaker in the city, in phones, in buildings, on the street.

"DO NOT BE ALARMED. HAVE FAITH. THY LORD GOD MARV IS WITH THEE."

The man winked reassuringly.

Maynard heard some guy yell "Whoo hoo! Par-tay!" He turned and instinctively pointed his dead phone at the white guy around his age who'd hefted a trash container above his head and was aiming for a window of the Doubletree Suites hotel.

The air shimmered before him and the man was there, the same man whose face was on all the billboards and signs. He scowled, and his thousands of faces scowled. His voice reverberated down the canyons of the city.

"That will not be allowed."

The trash container vanished from the startled young man's hands. The man flicked his hand as if shooing an offensive gnat. The boy disappeared. Before the crowd blinked he reappeared in the back seat of a squad car, his arms handcuffed behind him.

Around the nation similar incidents of attempted vandalism and larceny were halted the same way, by the gray-eyed man in the beige cardigan.

On dead-yet-alive screens across America, people saw the man in the cardigan raise both hands. They heard the man speak in a lofty tone.

"Be at peace and know that I am God."

He grinned and disappeared. The millions in New York City jumped as the lights and sounds snapped on and vehicles' engines simultaneously came to life.

Around the nation and the world news stations scrambled to report.

Maynard didn't stop texting his account of what happened, even as his parents ran from the hotel and squeezed him in fierce hugs.

"New York!" his father barked at his mother. "I told ya we should've gone to Orlando! This kinda thing doesn't happen in Orlando!"

* * *

Gabriel typed furiously. "We've gotta move fast on this, before the monkeys start fighting over who's the new God's favorite."

The tune _Livin' La Vida Loca_ played in Gabriel's pants. He pulled out his smartphone and read the text, which made him scowl. "Oh, crap _tastic_."

"What?" asked Cas with concern.

"Crowley says Megadork has put a seal on the office door. No angel, demon or human can get in or out. There goes Plan A, sneaking in and ganking the mother while he's distracted."

"Then what do we do?" When Gabriel didn't respond Cas said, "The sneak attack is my responsibility. How do I break the seal?" He added, "I feel useless."

"Feel useless?" the archangel muttered. "How about _are_ useless?"

"Gabriel!" said Mary. "That's not nice!"

Gabriel sighed and looked at Cas. "Brother, you're great dealing with humans. But when it comes to things divine you've had one cock up after another."

"Dude!" cried Jesus. "Harsh!"

Castiel set his jaw and pointed to Gabriel's Twitter feed. "Are you going ahead with this? How is this going to stop Metatron?"

"I'm weakening the infrastructure, OK?"

"And when you've weakened it, who's going to strike? Who's going to knock out the supports so it collapses?"

"I'm working on it!"

Castiel's voice hardened. "Are you going to storm Heaven?"

Gabriel's lips tightened.

"You wouldn't know how. Father never meant you to be a warrior. You were a messenger."

"Shut up about family right now, fuck you very much."

"You can't get past Metatron's angel guard. You can't get into Heaven unless he lets you. You can't get close enough to Metatron to capture or kill him."

Trying to break the tension, Mary said, "You have inside help."

Castiel directed his reply at Gabriel. "He can kill the Winchesters with a word typed or a finger raised. And Crowley? He has no power even a Cupid would fear, especially not in Heaven. I ask again, once you've weakened whatever metaphorical support you have in mind, who, how and what is going to strike the blow?"

"Let's get in there first, OK?!" yelled the archangel.

"You wanna help, man?" asked Jesus. "We're outta dip."

Castiel's mouth tightened. There were two "special" warriors about whom he had sworn secrecy unless there was absolutely no other option. But even enlisting their help wouldn't be enough. For that, he would have to break the rules. Well. He was used to doing that by now.

The angel rose. "If you'll excuse me." He nodded to Jesus and his family. "Lord. Ma'am. Saint Joseph." With a whoosh he was gone.

Joseph sighed. "Whenever anyone says that I feel like I'm baby aspirin."

Gabriel ignored Castiel's questions. He focused on his social network.

_dick4days: Ok, Operation Before A Fall is go!_

* * *

_MegaMarvFan: OMG God is back and I LOVE HIM!_

_sophiaMarv4evah: hes GOD & hes CUTE_

_GodMarvIsNumberOne: I WORSHIP U. LITERALLY._

Serious news investigated the "phenomenon" with hints that terrorists were behind it, having gained control of the country's power grid. But hospitals and emergency workers reported that they hadn't lost power, and testified to the benevolence of Thy Lord God Marv, who had shown his strength without injuring anyone. Tabloids tried in vain to contact Thy Lord God Marv, even airing the pleas of a famous TV evangelist.

Millions of tweets, posts, and comments praising Metatron wallpapered social media. Fan pages, Tumblrs, and DeviantArt sprang up overnight. Doubters were ignored or overwhelmed by the volume of fans.

* * *

Sam, Dean and Crowley hadn't seen Metatron for two days. They assumed he was once again walking the earth unseen, basking in the praise and adoration.

Dean impatiently demanded of Crowley, "So we're sealed in. Now what?"

Having filled his glass the demon returned the crystal stopper in the decanter. "I begrudgingly have to admit he has excellent taste in liquor."

"You don't know, do you?" said Sam.

The office door opened. They heard cheering.

Dean ignored it as he confronted the King of Hell. "You and Gabe are just pulling this out of your asses as you go."

Crowley growled, "This is why you only come out of things bloodied with a fat lip. You haven't patience and you don't know _when to keep your yap shut_." With a hiss he indicated the open door and the applauding angels coming through it. "Eyes and ears, Squirrel. _Eyes and ears!"_

The angels parted to allow Metatron through. He bowed to their clapping and cries of adulation. Patting the air he indicated that he wished them to get back to their work. He shut the office and resealed it. He turned in place, leaned back against the door, and grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

"They love me," he said with an ecstatic sigh.

" _Adore_ you," said Crowley, lifting his glass to the angel. "You're the bestest God ever."

With playful malevolence Metatron shook his finger at Sam and Dean. "You thought I underestimated humanity. But I know all about writing a blockbuster. I've studied the craft for millennia. I shaped the outline, I dotted the I's and crossed the T's! I've created for a weary, hungering world a God that would have made Joseph Campbell run to PBS for another series all about _me_." Metatron paused, considering. "I could look him up and have him write it. Forget _The Hero With a Thousand Faces!_ It will be _The One True Face of God!_ "

He glared at the humans, who were sitting on the couch. With sighs Sam and Dean slid off it and sat on the Persian rug among their catnip mice.

Standing above them, Metatron said, "I am the world's inspiration now. I can even be a God of mercy." He stated grandly, "Your death sentences are hereby revoked….for the present."

Dean grunted sarcastically. "So what do we do now? Sing praises at you?"

"It's what everyone else is doing."

The angel turned the laptop on his desk so it faced them. Two windows were open, side by side. One was his Twitter feed, which was automatically updating as the tweets poured in. The other was his Facebook page, with comments flooding the screen.

Metatron giggled. "Look at all the _Likes_! Look at all the _Favorites_! People want to have _sex_ with me! Not that I ever would! But as they say at the Oscars, it's an honor just to be nominated." He beamed as he informed the humans and the demon, "Redbubble and Zazzle have _I Love TLG Marv_ merchandise! That's what they call me! Isn't it wonderful? _TLG Marv_!"

"Sounds like a rapper," said Sam.

"A douche rapper," said Dean.

Metatron chuckled as if dealing with kindergartners. "Your mockery is hollow. Oh, the official churches are skeptical, but the people! The _people_ have embraced me! Much like it was with…" He hesitated. It was the first time his prisoners had seen anything close to fear cross the angel's face. "… someone. A long time ago." Even with the beard they saw his jaw muscles clench. "A different, backward age, with Father's first draft." He raised his chin. "But I've excelled."

Crowley dipped in a shallow bow. "You've surpassed your Father. Bravo."

Metatron giggled again. He removed his cardigan. With a movement of his hand it was replaced with his smoking jacket and ascot, which he put on. "I have better material." The angel moved to his turntable, switched it on with a touch of his fingertip, and set the needle on the revolving record. Only Crowley recognized the classical music as Jean-Joseph's _Le Triumph de Thalie Il Fondamento_.

The angel spoke gloatingly as he crossed to the decanter and filled a glass. "I went out into the world as He did not and learned from it. Father had concept, but His execution…" Metatron paused, choosing his words carefully. No one but his prisoners and the demon could hear. But what he was daring to say was so dangerous that even he, Thy Lord God Marv, proceeded with care. "I learned from His... mistakes." He continued decisively, "Yes, they were mistakes." His face hardened. "A son born of human woman! It was flawed from the start. Yes! Because the...child, being born human, inevitably incorporated every weakness of His lesser creations. Yes, I say lesser! Lucifer was wrong, very wrong, to disobey Father, but his reason wasn't without some consideration!"

"And that's why your Father left, isn't it?" Sam ventured carefully, "He was—"

"Embarrassed!" Metatron declared. "Ashamed! I alone, of all His children, knew His mind! I know that's why He left!"

"You know?" Sam challenged. "Or that's what you choose to believe?"

"I knew God's mind! I know that's why He chose me from all of His children to be the keeper of His legacy. Because I alone could hold together His precious Paradise, which the other angels defiled! He opened His mind to _me_ , and me _alone_ , because…" Metatron spoke aloud what he'd believed in his heart of hearts from the moment he first sat in God's presence and put the first of the Word into a tablet. "He was grooming me for His throne. Not… _Jesus!_ He walled the boy up, never to be seen or heard from again! But He opened His mind to _me_ , preparing me to complete what His flawed ape-progeny could not! I was meant to ascend to His place! And now I have!"

Sam, Dean and Crowley watched as Metatron scooted his chair up to the computer. He spoke aloud as he typed, addressing his audience of millions.

"Thy Lord hears you, my children. Swathe me in exultations! Bathe me in with righteous praise! Be good and obedient, my children, and with your endless adoration, I will build Heaven on Earth!"

* * *

_dick4days: Release the trolls._


	6. Gimme That Old World Religion.

In the humid cool of the late evening the thousands of pilgrims to the Kalighat Kali temple in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, had dwindled to a mere few hundred. Castiel inhaled air rich with the scents of fertile water, flowers, incense, smoke, essential oils and the many and varied smells of humans. There was also the smell of fresh goat's blood. Had he truly considered this to be a holy place, and he was doing his best to do just that, he would have found the smell of ritual death offensive. But he recalled how Father had expected His temples to have the smell of sacrificed sheep. Father in fact became angry when this price wasn't paid. It hadn't stopped until He'd created the ultimate blood sacrifice with His Son, with a death that was far more gruesome than a slit throat. Even now, the symbolism of eating the flesh and drinking the blood of a demi-god sacrifice was an integral part of the lives of many of Father's believers.

Castiel never wondered why Father required His humans to kill animals in His name. It was how things were.

But now… The Angel of the Lord looked around him. Now there was so much Father had not told any of His first children. Certainly not about the beautiful tower of t his temple, surrounded by vendors selling flowers, shells and images of Kali, vibrant with life.

Invisible, Castiel had listened to the pilgrims conversing with Kali as if she were their dearest mother. They shared the hopes, fears and woes of their short human lives, from prayers for a more prosperous income to complaints about that certain relative who was a pain in the ass. Among the sweet fragrance of fresh hibiscus he listened to those whose prayers had been answered giving thanks and gratitude along with offerings.

He sensed that the temple priests were aware of him, though his physical form was shielded from their vision. One had walked down the corridor toward him and hesitated for the blink of an eye in midstep, then shifted his course just enough to avoid the spot where the angel stood. Castiel felt awkward, as if he'd walked into someone's home without invitation. Well, he had. He'd entered without announcement and lingered for several hours, confused and awed. How long had it been since he'd been inside a religious building that wasn't out of use and decrepit, the kind of falling down, black-mold church the Winchesters so often found? When had he ever been in the home of gods not of his family?

Never. Until recently he'd never believed that gods, gods of his Father' caliber, even existed.

The worshipers and priests had moved away from the area of the temple where he stood. The temple was quiet. Something of the quiet made Castiel realize that the priests knew a being powerful but outside of their ken was there. They made room for the thing to do its business. But they weren't afraid. In the house of Kali? How could they be afraid?

He was, after all, just a "thing" here.

Castiel faced the mask-like face of Kali set behind a low iron gate. It – she – was festooned with garlands of flowers and shells. This unique image was almost Modern art, the wood face painted with three enormous red eyes, one of which stood vertical in the center of her forehead. A single, thin line indicated her nose, and a gold ring pierced her left nostril. Something wide and gilded – her tongue?- hung down.

The angel looked around. No humans could be seen. He faced the image he didn't understand. His raspy voice spoke gently and politely.

"My apologies that I don't know the proper ceremonies for a communication with you. But I appeal to you, with humility."

He felt the air behind him shift and slowly turned around. Kali's choli and pants were blood-red with gold-threaded cuffs, and wet with black blood. Her hip-length hair was wild, caked with blood and dirt. Two of her four red-palmed hands held huge black-blood-stained scimitars, a third clutched a noose, and the fourth held by its black hair the decapitated head of a blue-skinned monster with a bear-like snout and daggers for teeth.

Kali sighed. "Busy."

"My apologies."

She lowered her weapons. "I thought your dad wouldn't let you cross the street."

"I am an adult," he assured her.

"Well, you're two thousand years younger than me, kid."

"I'm sorry if I'm…interrupting."

Kali wiped her forehead. "Just cleared out a demon infestation. You think your demons are problems? They're only warped humans." She held out the head with the pointed tongue and upturned yellow eyes. "How'd you like to deal with _that_ set of teeth?"

Castiel was intrigued. "You kill demons?"

The goddess huffed air out her mouth. "As long as you're in town, pick up some literature." She dropped the head with a thump and put her fist on her hip. "I admit, I'm stunned. An angel actually coming over here." Her eyes narrowed. "You're not a missionary, are you?"

"No, ma'am. I come with all respect." He rummaged in a coat pocket. "I brought an offering. I hear you like butter and sweets." He held them out to the goddess.

"Uh..thanks." Kali took them and examined the stick of butter. "Wow, Land O' Lakes. I feel special." She sheathed one of her scimitars and looked at the packet. "Pop Rocks? What're these?"

"I'm not really sure. My brother Gabriel the archangel is a connoisseur of candy and recommended them."

Kali poured the contents into her mouth. Immediately the candy burst in tiny explosions. She grinned. "These are so cool!" She opened her mouth in order to hear the popping better, then closed it and swallowed. "Watermelon flavor!"

Castiel grabbed the moment. "I need your help."

"Yes?"

Castiel explained in detail the situation with Metatron.

Kali said, "Sincerely, I'm very sorry, but I can't get involved."

"Forgive me, but, can't or won't?"

"It's not outside of my power to help, but.. .I know that because of your dad you don't know how the rest of the supernatural world works. Here's the short version. We don't get involved in your problems and you don't get involved with ours."

"But now that we, that is, my family, know about you and the others, we—"

Kali looked at him firmly. "Fine. You want to help me kill demons?"

Gamely, Castiel said, "I'd try—"

"And while you're doing that, who's going to deal with the problems in your heavenly realm? Right now I've got Kumbhakarna eating monks and he just injured Hanuman, and you don't even know who they are. My point is, we have our _own_ disputes and problems. We've always kept to our own territories."

"But there are many believers of yours in the parts of the world that are of my concern, which Metatron now sees as his province. America, for instance—"

"And I look after them," Kali stated. "I hear their prayers and answer as best I can. But it's only those individuals who believe in me, who worship me and my family, who I keep under my protection."

"You only guard your own?"

"Isn't that what you do? How many angels of your lord got involved in our wars? I didn't see any of you feathered guys fighting by my side."

"Perhaps it's been wrong, this segregation. But I assure you that it was ignorance on the part of the angels, not prejudice. Now, if we non-mortals band together, I know we have common interests—"

Kali scowled. "Your worshipers mock us. They think we're just animals, because, basically, they have contempt for animals. Didn't you listen to a word Nature said? You think I want to walk among humans who laugh at my image? Who think I'm a freak, a myth of primitive, backward people? Why should I invest time and energy on their behalf when my worshipers need it?"

Castiel was at a loss.

With empathy, the goddess said, "Look, we know what's going on with you angels and your believers. We see TV, we know about the social media. You have a megalomaniac at the wheel and it well and truly sucks. But _I_ don't have time to tweet because I have a guy the size of the Urbana Towers eating humans by the handful. You don't hear about that on your angel radio, do you? Because Western civilization only cares about Western civilization. Thousands die from a typhoon in Andhra Pradesh, but who in North America notices? Especially who would notice that typhoon was caused by our own gods and demons war?"

"I had no idea. I'm sorry," Cas said sincerely.

"I understand why you don't know. This isn't a snub. I have responsibilities to those creatures who are weaker and shorter-lived than I am. Isn't that what your father wanted? No, he didn't create humans, but he told you he did so you'd feel a kinship with them and you'd protect them, because you're stronger than they are. It's noblesse oblige. You angels seem to have forgotten. Well, as Dr. Phil says, how's that workin' for ya?"

Castiel quietly pleaded, "It's out of that duty and responsibility that I come to you. The situation that's developed is beyond the scope of I and my brothers. Supernatural beings will die, but what's more to the point is humans will become either sheep or slaves. As much as they frustrate me, I don't wish that fate upon them. But it's not in my power to stop it. I need strength beyond my own."

The goddess inhaled deeply. She scratched dried blood off her forehead. She mulled, hesitantly, "I'd have to consult with my family—"

"I'm sorry, but there isn't time."

"The rules are two millennia old. You brought them upon yourselves. You remember those times."

"I do. I'm embarrassed by our arrogance, ignorance and xenophobia. But that's then."

"I can't and won't break the rules. To cross the world and fight your fight, it's never been done. Your North American -"

She paused, her eyes widening. Pointedly, she said, "Angel."

"Ma'am?"

"I'm going to give you a name of someone very old and very young. Sometimes it's female, sometimes it's male, so don't be surprised or thrown by gender. It answers to no one but Nature. But if you approach it exactly, and I mean _exactly_ , as I instruct you, it might listen."

"Is it powerful?" Cas asked hopefully.

"A flea's powerful, if it bites in the right place."


	7. Oh the Huge Manatee.

Metratron turned on his computer.

Dean threw the damn ball of yarn across the room, knowing what was coming. "You don't have to keep reading all those adoring tweets and posts to us."

Metatron chortled. "Oh, but I do!" He glared at Sam, who was headed to the restroom. He wanted a full audience. "What, _again_? This is getting annoying ."

"It'll be even more annoying if you don't let me go," said Sam. "I don't know what's in that," he made air quotes, "'Human Pet Chow', but they should lower the bran content."

Metatron tsked. "What was Father thinking when he designed you that way? I wouldn't have. Why do any of His creatures produce by-products? That restroom ruins the milieu of my office."

"Dad always said don't adopt a pet if you aren't willing to take care of it," said Dean.

"Ugh, it's disgusting. I can't be bothered with it!" He waved his hand. A strange sensation hit Sam in the gut, causing him to bend forward and grunt.

Dean was alarmed by his brother's weird expression. "Sammy! What'd he do to you?"

Sam winched. "I...think it was a divine colonic. It wasn't pleasant."

"I should stop feeding you," Metatron decided. "That'll solve it."

"Yeah, no problems there." Dean rolled his eyes.

There were three hard raps on the office door.

While he logged into his social media accounts, Metatron raised a finger, unsealing the lock. "Enter."

Hannah brought in Crowley by the scruff of his neck. Her face was pinched and red.

"Permission to castrate the demon, Lord God?" she asked.

Metatron didn't look up from the computer. "And again the answer is no."

"Just half? It's my understanding that they have two."

"Thank you, Hannah. You may go. Empty handed."

Hannah dropped Crowley, turned on her heel and left.

Crowley picked himself up and straightened his bunched collar. "D'you notice she's obsessed with me bits? Dying to get her hands on them."

"Shall I let her?" said Metatron, typing.

"That's not my kink, no."

"Come to suck up more of my excellent liquor?"

"Yes, please. But I'm also here because I brought you a prezzie." He pulled a rolled-up t-shirt from his suit and held it up for the angel. Sam and Dean rose and looked at it.

"Oo!" Metatron clapped to see himself on pink fabric, his head crowned with flowers, surrounded by hearts and grinning over the cursive words _Mad 4 Marv_. "Zazzle or Redbubble?"

"Hot Topic. Your beatific mug now shines beside Batman, Hello Kitty and Baby Goth panties."

"People are making money off you, God," said Sam.

"God as an icon of popular culture. Father never achieved that," the angel bragged.

"Obviously you don't remember the 16th century," Crowley said under his breath.

Metatron crowed, "I'll tell all my Friends and Followers about it!" He scrolled through his feed. What he read stunned him. He switched between his Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr, thinking that he'd accidentally bookmarked someone else's pages. Surely these things weren't about _him_.

"Problem?" Sam asked.

Crowley told the brothers, soto voice, "And here we go."

"This isn't right." Metatron said flatly. "It's a joke. A bad, inept joke."

"Hmm?" said Crowley with mock innocence. He stood behind the angel and read the screen. "Oh dear."

Metatron clicked past the comment. "Ignore it." He stared in disbelief at the next comment.

"This one's worse," Crowley stated honestly.

"What's worse than what?" Dean came around behind the desk, followed by Sam.

"It's nothing!" the angel blurted.

"Of course it's nothing," said Crowley. "But goodness."

Sam bent down, one hand on the desk top, so he could read. "Wow."

Dean whistled. He took the mouse from the stunned angel and flipped between screens.

_Ok so we got a new God. Has the name Marv ok better than Yahweh ok hes supposed to make a better world but LOOK AT IT. we still have war and hate and murder and rapists. So how is this god better than the old one?_

_What are u doin in heaven Thy Lord God Marv? Jerking off?_

_The manatees are almost extinct. What are you going to do about it?_

_At least the old god sent us his only begotten son to be our savior. But you haven't done shit you loser_

_U stopped a tornado im so impressed SARCASM_

_If youre god why do you look like someone took a dump on a pile of dirty laundry_

Sam and Dean laughed.

"You think that's funny?!" Metatron barked. He seized the mouse from Dean and angrily continued scrolling.

_People hate and kill each other! Why aren't you filling every human heart with love? Don't you know how?_

_My mom just told me she has cancer. Fuck you Lord God Marv._

"That's not MY fault!" Metatron said. "How is that my fault?!"

"You're God now," said Crowley. "When they're not blaming _me_ then tragedy is on _your_ omnipotent head."

"Whoa. Incoming!" said Dean, reading ahead.

_God has fish lips. Its from sucking angel –_

"Holy—can they SAY that?!" cried the angel.

Sam warned, "That's just a warm up."

_God marv is a weak ass ho there is poverty everywhere but he aint don shit cause he got a teeny lil weak god weiner_

Metatron screeched.

_Lord god marv says he cares about us his creations & earth but manatees are almost gone and he doesn't even care_

"How dare they!" Metatron bellowed. "How DARE THEY?"

The Winchesters and Crowley stepped back as Metatron sputtered like lava.

Someone knocked on the door. Metatron gestured and it opened.

Hannah looked concerned. "Lord? We heard you making noises that indicate that you may be upset."

"Oh, WELL observed!" Metatron spat sarcastically. "You functionaries are useless! You'll come when I CALL you and not before!" The door slammed and sealed with a twist of his hand.

"I'm sure it's all nothing," said Crowley, inwardly gloating.

"The ingratitude!" cried the angel. "Spoiled, petulant children! They have life, they have breath, they have choices! But noooo! It's as it's always been! Gimme, gimme, gimme! I'll tell you where it went wrong! When Father," he glowered at the door, lowered his voice and snarled, "when Father did that girl."

"Did?" said Dean.

Having not heard the question, Metatron barreled ahead. "He may have had a soupcon of ruthlessness back in the day, but it worked! The monkeys were right and properly terrified! They knew their place! Even if we angels were meant to be their protectors they at least comprehended in the back dim rooms of their tiny brains that we were something of which to be held in AWE! Those bug-munching , sheep-humping miserable peasants said their prayers and _meant_ them, because they knew Father's wrath when He was denied their humble, thankful obedience."

The angel shoved away from his desk. Sam and Dean gave the angel room to angrily pace.

Metatron monologued bitterly, "But then Father wanted to be _loved_. So He found a devout virgin. And she gave Him Himself. Only better. And the humans adored Him." His expression went rancid with the memory. "Obnoxiously precocious. He was preaching to rabbis two times his age before he hit puberty! Even puberty was pure on that," he paused, then spat it out, "bastard. Father created Hell and the humans' Savior from it, and things became so soft and huggy and lovey." He twitched all over. "That's what's wrong with the world today! LOOK at any picture of—of Jesus! Blue eyes! Blond hair! Hollywood stars would slit the throats of their agents if it would gain them a smile as shining and perfect as His! Do you think ANYONE in one B.C. had teeth like that? Oh, HE did."

The King of Hell was enjoying this thoroughly, relaxing back in a chair and sipping cognac, his large, half-lidded eyes following the angel's furious march back and forth across the carpet. The Winchesters watched too, warily.

"Now everyone sees Heaven as full of stuffed animals, frozen yogurt and Jesus just waiting to take them to ride the rides and watch the fireworks!" complained Metatron. "They call him their pal, their big brother! They have puppet shows about him! _Puppet shows_!"

"Dude, you ever seen any of those puppet shows?" asked Dean. "They're creepy."

"I've killed nest of vampires that didn't scare me as much as those puppet shows,' said Sam.

"Shut up!" Facing the Winchesters, Metatron barked, "You humans, always interrupting with what YOU think and YOU want! Because Jesus is your co-pilot! Jesus is your PAL." He face turned to granite. "Well, I've got news for the world. Jesus is DEAD."

"Where is Jesus?" Sam demanded.

Metatron growled at Sam, "And humans don't _listen._ "

"You don't know what happened to him, _do_ you?"

Sam flew across the room and bashed into a mahogany bookcase. He crumpled with a groan. Dean hurried to him and helped him up.

Metatron's expression could have spoiled fruit. "It's time for a little Old Testament Sunday School lesson to those who believe God can be mocked."

He sat at his computer, speaking his words through gritted teeth as he typed them. "Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap."

Sam rubbed his head. "Uh, that's already been written."

"Oh, I'm so worried about copyright infringement!" said Metatron. "I know about it, idiot! I wrote it!"

"No, you only wrote it down. You didn't create it."

Sam whacked against the wall next to Crowley's chair and fell on his back with a pained grunt. Crowley, enjoying himself no end, nonchalantly caught the framed painting that was falling toward the human's head.

Metatron typed and spoke fiercely. "Rather than give unto God the fealty and affection that is His due, you are focused on the insignificant and temporal things of the earth, such as the manatee. So that you may know and justly fear the wroth of Thy Lord God Marv, behold, what mean and shallow thing a manatee is compared to His Hand!"

Sam swallowed with dread. "Oh, you wouldn't -"

"What the hell's a manatee again?" said Crowley.

"Don't!" Sam cried.

* * *

Abigail Madison didn't want to be hugged by Ariel the mermaid. She knew her mother was trying to water down her daughter's obsession with becoming a marine biologist -specialty: sirenians - with an infusion of Disney Princess. They'd compromised. Instead of going to Disney World's Fantasyland like Mom wanted them to or the Everglades like Abigail wanted to, they were in The Seas with Nemo and Friends at Disney World's Epcot.

At ten Abigail already knew more about manatees than the sincerely kind Disney "cast member" who was instructing the tourists. Ignoring her Mom's cries of "Now just a minute, young lady!," Abigail rushed past the cutesy Turtle Talk with Crush and Bruce's Sub House and ran directly to Level Two.

"Excuse me, please!" The two teenagers blocking her view of the tank were focused on their phones, so Abigail squeezed between them. With an internal squee - she didn't want to disturb the animals- she gazed down with adoration at the two rescued manatees, floating in the clear water of the tank. Giddily she leaned over the Plexiglas railing as far as her grabby mother allowed, which wasn't nearly far enough. The animal directly in front of her was gently munching lettuce with Zen contentment. A real, live manatee!

"Dude," said Maynard "Mupload" to his cousin, who'd been dragged along with him to this constipation of a vacation at Epcot. He read the screen of his iphone. "Thylordgodmarv said he's gonna—"

"Dude," replied his cousin Ralphie, reading the same tweets, "what the fuc—"

"Language!" Abigail's mother glared at the boys and pointed at her daughter.

Abigail smiled, ignoring them all. This was the most perfect moment in her entire life and nothing could spoil it.

And then the manatee blew up.

* * *

"You blew up a manatee!" yelled Sam.

"What _are_ those things?" Crowley squinted at the computer screen showing a live stream from the Epcot tank.

"You freaking exploded a manatee!" yelled Dean.

Metatron crossed his arms and smiled with grim satisfaction. "I bet the Twitterverse has the fear of God in them now!"

Dean peered over the angel's head at the windows with the Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr feeds. "Oh, sure. Just look. They're all wettin' themselves."

They read.

_HOLY FUCK THY LORD GOD YOU SLAUGHTERED AN INNOCENT MANATEE_

_What the actual fuck you dickless asshole_

_Oh look god marv smites harmless creatures because people call him out. Is this supposed to make us quiver with terror? I'm giving you the finger right now you asshole [typing with one hand asshole] go ahead and smite me you baby_

_I AINT SCARED OF YOU BULLY. ALL BULLYS ARE COWARDS_

_That is so pissy and cynical and cruel. I cant even._

_MURDERER!_

_Trying to compensate for something huh thy lord god murderer_

_The manatee was perfect. You are not._

_I ought to go burn down a church in hopes your ass will be burnt too but me im merciful unlike some people_

Metatron's eyes teared. "They don't understand!"

"Actually, they do," said Crowley. "You wanted to frighten them so you killed one of those gray blobs. They understand, they're just not reacting the way you expected."

"Wait! Wait!" He typed desperately. "The Lord God is a sun and shield! The Lord gives grace and glory!"

"He's repeating himself," Crowley whispered to the boys.

"He hasn't said that before," Dean whispered back.

"It's Psalms 84:11… Have you ever actually cracked open a bible?"

"Naw, I was hoping you'd read it to me when you tuck me in."

"I _will_ kill you, slowly and horribly, but anon."

"Shut up," Sam whispered. "The cracks are starting. Where's Cas?"

"What are we, attached at the hip?" whispered Dean. "I thought _you'd_ planned how to get him up here."

Metatron's typing and speaking grew louder. "Behold! For Thy God is rich with mercy!"

* * *

Covered in manatee bits and blood, Abigail blinked slowly. She had only just focused on her manatee-spattered mother shrieking and flailing her hands and the blood-dripping teens thumbing their phones wildly. She was edging out of the cold of her shock while trying to decide whether to scream, vomit or faint, or perhaps do all three, when a booming, if nebbishy, voice reverberated throughout the room.

"Behold! For Thy God is rich with mercy!"

A thunderclap caused the water in the tank to sway from one side to the other. With a flash Abigail was dry and clean, as were all the astonished people around her. She looked down at the tank.

The second manatee floated motionlessly. Its tiny black eyes blinked twice. Its companion floated over to it and faced it, as if it to politely inquire about the returning manatee's feelings on the matter. The resurrected animal found a bit of lettuce by its nose, lifted its thick lips, and pulled it in. It chewed reflectively and gave no hint of any permanent psychological or philosophical trauma over its adventure.

* * *

Metatron spoke aloud brightly as he typed. "All is well! No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly!" He clicked Send and gave a sigh of relief.

Replies appeared immediately.

"They ain't buying it," said Dean.

They read.

_Manatees don't walk uprightly, they swim horizontally. who died and made you god you are so stupid_

_DO YOU NOT REALIZE WE ALL WANT TO MURDER YOU RIGHT NOW?!_

_I mean this in the best way possible, but I legitimately want you to choke to death on your own vomit_

Metatron whimpered.


	8. There Are More Things in Heaven & Earth.

A rectangular, narrow stage, painted black, was set in front of the red brick wall in a basement room with a low ceiling. Several chairs and small tables faced the stage. Lights in the ceiling were fixed on a microphone stand, bar stool and little table in the center of the stage. A word written in glass tubing cursive spelled _comedyworks_ , and glowed a pale neon white-blue. Castiel found it a pleasant light, patient and calm.

The angel waited, standing amidst the empty tables and chairs. A woman with red-streaked black hair tied back with a red bandanna emerged from the narrow hall to the angel's right and crossed to the stage. She was of average height and average weight. Her skin was pinkish-tan with many freckles and rosy vitality. Her muscles were lean and taut. She wore a gray t-shirt, faded jeans, black sneakers, and no jewelry. No one, not even Castiel, would have noticed her if he'd not been directed to look for her.

He spoke French not because it was Montreal, but because he was following Kali's instructions. His voice, which was always dry and scratchy, was louder than he intended in the dark room.

"Bonjour."

In the spotlight, the woman's head snapped up. It was only then that Castiel saw that the entirety of her almond-shaped eyes were amber and her pupils were vertical slits. She blinked and narrowed her eyes. The pupils became normally round and only her irises were amber. Her forearms clenched as she quickly stuck a microphone in the stand and glared at the figure whose face was concealed by the spotlight in those eyes.

"Bonjour, Goupil," said Castiel.

The amber eyes widened. She barked out a laugh. "Que l'antique!" Her voice was rich.

Castiel dared to step forward so he could be better seen, as the Goddess had instructed. "Kali m'a envoye'."

"Kali?" The woman whistled. "Je suis impressionne'. " She crossed her arms. "Por quelle raison?"

Humbly, Castiel explained, "S'il vous plait, Jai besoin de votre aide."

The woman blew air. Her tone was slightly politer than contempt. " _Moi_ , ange du seigneur?"

Castiel nodded. "Oui, Goupil."

Her voice was smoky and playful, not in a flirtatious way, but with amusement and curiosity. "Will wonders never cease. Siddown, angel of the lord."

* * *

Jesus asked Gabriel, "So, like, what happens now?"

"Hopefully when Metatron's weakened the Winchesters will break the seal and open his door. Then Cas gets in and strikes."

"With what?" asked Mary.

"His angel blade. That's all we've got, with the First Blade gone."

"Will an angel blade kill Metatron?" said Mary with worry.

"Ego aside, Metadick's as plain an angel as they come. Blade'll definitely skewer him."

"But doesn't he, like, have that thing?" said Jesus. "The rock with his scratches in it?"

"Angel tablet," said Joseph, reading _The Washington Post_.

"Yeah. Doesn't that boost his strength?"

"Not so much that a blade can't kill him."

"So where's Cas?" Jesus asked.

"Well, he's…" The archangel looked around. "…here. Uh…"

Mary shook her head. "He left a while ago, dear."

Jesus asked, "On the chance he doesn't book it to Heaven in time, like…what's Plan B?"

Gabriel said, without confidence, "Crowley's got Plan B."

* * *

The tweets and posts were sucking the life out of him. Yet Metatron couldn't stop reading them. It was as the humans say about not being able to look away from a car wreck. Except _he_ was the car wreck.

_I'm gonna be an atheist now because I don't want to believe in god if hes the kind of god who isn't kind to animals and just wants his ugy face in all the churches_

_I live in Detroit where there aren't enough jobs how about a miracle god_

_Why aren't you stopping war in the middle east an ebola u selfish turd_

Crowley whispered angrily at the Winchesters. "Plan B was you feckless Neanderthals killing him!"

Dean countered hoarsely, "With what? One of his bookends?"

"I thought procuring angel-killing weapons was your department," Sam whispered.

"Can't you get your paws on an angel blade?" demanded Dean.

Crowley sputtered indignantly. "You think I've been feeling up Hannah Hardarse because I want a piece of that? I've been trying to grab her blade!"

" _And_?"

"They must sheath them up their arses, because I got nada!"

"We've got to act fast!" said Sam. "Think!"

* * *

The woman from the comedy club walked out of the gates of the Baron de Hirsch cemetery in Montreal to where Castiel was waiting across the street.

"They say they're in," she reported.

"Wonderful."

"One says he's irritated that you didn't ask them face to face. And that you didn't ask them before you asked me." She smirked. "'With all due respect,' they said. Cuz until now they didn't know I existed, either."

"They know why I couldn't meet with them. If they don't, they will."

"If we live through this."

"If we live."

* * *

_TheLordGodMarv omnipotent my ass_

_My temperature is higher than your IQ._

_STUPIDEST GOD EVAH_

_If you're so great make some sort of thing from scratch that doesn't already exist. You can't do it, can you?_

_You literally make me want to stab you_

_Obviously they don't have gyms or diets or plastic surgery in heaven_

_UGLIEST GOD EVAH_

Crowley looked under the desk. "God?"

Metatron was shivering in a tight fetal position on the rug. His gray eyes were wet with shock and disbelief. He squeaked, "Who knew little girls could be so _cruel_?"

"Are you kidding?" said Crowley in an undertone. "Half of Hell's torture chambers are staffed with them."

"They hate me! They hate me!" Metatron wailed. "I want to die!"

"We're working on that," Crowley muttered. The demon handed Sam's fluffy bunny toy to the angel. He clutched it and sucked one of its ears.

Sam held up a letter opener that looked like a sword to Dean and Crowley and whispered, "What about this?"

"Seriously?" The King of Hell huffed. "How have you cretins managed to stay alive this long?"

"Get us some holy oil!" Dean ordered.

"I think even you've noticed, Squirrel, that I can't get through that door. And expecting to find holy oil here is like expecting to find a can of Raid in a roach nest."

"We need an angel blade!" Sam stated.

Determination set Dean's face. "Cas crapped out on us." He grabbed the letter opener from his brother. "Screw it, if we can decapitate this asshole it'll buy us some time—"

Before they took their next breath the three of them were airborn. They slammed into the wall on their backs and stayed there, with the exception of the demon, who crashed to the floor.

Metatron stood in front of his desk. His hair was a mess. His ascot was askew. His gray eyes were sharp as flint. His voice was sand.

"You put me in this situation. You convinced me to submit my work. You _knew_ I'd be rejected."

The Winchesters struggled, but they were stuck like rats on a glue trap. Crowley, the wind knocked out of him, tried to get to his feet, only to find his legs no longer obeyed him.

Metatron winced. "The hurtful, unconstructive feedback! Not a thought given to context or the bigger arc or my sincerity of vision! I poured my heart into my work and _they don't even care_!"

The spell broke. The Winchesters crashed to the floor.

The angel's voice deepened. "I cast pearls before those swine. Now they're laughing at me. ME. The ignorant monkeys are flinging the turds of their minds at me and it's _your fault_!"

Crowley's knees were soldered to the floor. "Strike him!" he bellowed at the boys.

"With what?" yelled Sam.

"You're the _fucking Winchesters_! _Do something_!"

Thinking fast, Sam stammered, "Uh…your narrative is overblown and sanctimonious!"

Metatron flinched as if physically hurt.

"You're wordy!" said Dean. "Too much talk, not enough action!"

With eyes like a wounded animal, Metatron hissed, "Oh, I can't write, can I?" He limped behind his desk and sat at his typewriter.

"Oh damn," groaned Dean. "We shoulda taken that thing apart."

Metatron said, viciously, "Here's a short story for you. A very short story." His voice was acid as he spoke while he composed. "Sam and Dean Winchester, along with their pet demon Crowley—"

"I am not—" Crowley's voice was choked off.

"-felt their windpipes tightening. The precious stream of air to their lungs thinned—"

The boys' throats felt as if giant hands were closing around them.

Metatron grinned vindictively. "The demon felt a rising heat in his flesh."

In alarm, Crowley raised his hands. He was aglow.

"Not the calidity of his precious Hell, but the preliminary buildup of exorcising angel fire –"

The agony ran through Crowley's veins as the light saturated his flesh. His eyes began to shine yellow-white. He groan pitched into a wail.

"The Winchesters' throats slammed shut. The lifeline to oxygen was snapped off."

Sam and Dean gaped like fish, but no air entered their lungs.

Shouts penetrated the office door. Startled, Metatron stopped typing. The strength of his spell weakened momentarily.

Knowing he had seconds before he passed out, Sam stumbled to the desk. Instinctively the angel jerked away from him as Sam reached into the typewriter, snagged its ribbon and yanked it out into a long loop. The spell broke completely; the men gasped, filling their lungs. Crowley panted, watching the killing angel light seep from his hands. The next instant Sam was slammed across the room.

As Dean tried to crawl to his brother, both of them on the edge of consciousness, The Scribe of God rose from his chair and came around from his desk.

Metatron said, with frightening bitter quiet, "Everyone's a critic. I guess I'll have to do this long-hand." His angel blade slid into his hand as he stood before them. "J.D. Salinger was right. You're all phonies." He scowled. "I _hate_ phonies." He raised his blade.

The office door burst open.

Hannah cried, "It smells!"

"It urinated on my desk!" cried an angel.

Shocked, Metatron turned, weapon at the ready.

A red fox trotted in, bold as you please. It looked around as if assessing the situation, gave the boys a wink, then sat down and gazed at Metatron with a smug, foxy grin.

Metatron quickly slammed the door shut. He asked himself aloud, "How did that get in here? The door is sealed against—"

"- Angels, humans and demons," said the fox. "But not animals."

They all stared.

The fox chuckled. "You angels. You never think about animals at all, do you?" The air fluttered. An amber-eyed woman with wavy, reddish-black hair stood with her thumbs hooked in her jeans' pockets. "And you never think about other gods. Not barred against _us_ , are ya, chum?"

Frantic with confusion, Metatron stabbed at the woman. She vanished and reappeared, smirking.

"What are you?!" the angel yelled. "An assassin?!" He stabbed again and the woman deftly disappeared and reappeared by the door.

"Cross-cultural deity murder wouldn't be kosher. So to speak," she said. "No, I'll leave that to your own kind."

"No angel can enter to hurt me, mutt!"

"Unless someone opens the door for them."

She turned the knob and flung the door wide. A huge whoosh of air and fluttering rushed past her. Metatron was yanked backwards and his blade flew from his grip.

It was caught in midair by a strong brown hand.

Sam, Dean and even Crowley gaped.

Bobby Singer had a tight grip around Metatron's arms. "You are one major pain in the ass."

Rufus Turner held the angel blade to Metatron's throat. "Not a move, not a sound."

Together, Sam and Dean cried, " _Bobby? Rufus?_ "

Hannah and the angel guard, as well Metatron's staff, ran in. They halted, staring at their captured God. Castiel brushed past them.

"I've apprised them all concerning Metatron's overarching plans to dominate them as a shepherd would a sheep," Castiel told the Winchesters and the King of Hell.

"Cas!" the Winchesters cried.

Crowley made a choking sound while pointing angrily at his throat.

Bobby snorted. "Oh, I'm gonna regret this." He snapped his fingers. Crowley coughed and hacked.

The woman stood before the Winchesters, looking them up and down with mild interest. "No thanks for me?"

"Really, thanks!" said Sam. "We owe you our lives. But, uh…." He smiled politely. "Who _are_ you?"

" _What_ are you?" asked Dean.

"An authentic trickster," said Cas.

The woman chuckled. "If I'd known about that archangel poser before this I might not have been so obliged to help. But this one," she jerked her head to indicate Castiel, "assures me his brother's knocked it off, so we're cool." She looked at Sam. "I've many names, depending on what continent I'm on, depending on which people are talking about me. But the one you'd recognize is Reynard."

"The fox." Sam nodded. "All around the world, there are fox tricksters."

"No, there's only _moi_. But I'm eternal and I get around. Indigenous Americans and the French like me the most, so, hey, Montreal's been the place." She said to Castiel, "Speaking of that fake trickster, you can tell him to call off his trolls. The job's done."

* * *

_dick4days: VICTORY IS DECLARED. PARTYING MANDATORY._

A lot of social media users were annoyed as the Internet was taken over by the self-congratulatory tweets and posts by the Followers and Friends of someone who went by _dick4days_. Many decided to take a break until the hoopla died down.

* * *


	9. The Ascent of Man and Angels.

Sam sat in the wicker chair, Dean was in the La-Z-Boy, Castiel had pulled a chair over from the den and Gabriel was cross-legged on the floor. Jesus sat with Bobby and Rufus on the couch. Sam, Dean, Cas, Rufus and Bobby held glasses of whiskey; Gabe and Jesus had wine.

Sam shook his head as he tried to take it in. "You're _angels_?"

"You're angels," said Dean. "How the hell did _that_ happen?"

Rufus looked at his drink. "Took me awhile after you stabbed me," he and Bobby exchanged smirks, "and buried me – and I thank you for the proper burial and headstone, though you put it up sooner than tradition allows—"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," said Bobby.

"– I woke up with the wings. Now, this was before Metadick-"

"I thought up that name!" said Gabriel, proud and possessive.

"Can I tell my story uninterrupted here? Thank you! It happened before that son of a bitch tricked y'all into sealing Heaven. When I came to I was in the Garden. Joshua greeted me. I asked him how this was possible. He spoke to me in Hebrew. He said, 'I can't explain it except, evolution happens here, too.'"

The Winchesters looked at each other.

"Whoa. That is wild," said Jesus.

"For some reason or another, my human soul didn't become exactly an angel, but…something part humanity and part angelic."

Gabe laughed. "You're a spiritual Prius!" He looked at everyone's deadpan expressions. "Christ, everybody lighten up!"

"Language!" snapped Mary from the chrome and formica breakfast table.

Jesus sighed. "Mom, that's not even my real name."

Rufus continued, "Because I was a different type of angel, I wasn't discovered when the angel war started. I couldn't pick sides 'cause the only side I gave a flying fu—" He glanced at Mary. "—I gave a damn about was humanity. Joshua assigned me to protect the Garden, which I did. And then Bobby showed up."

"Same thing with me." Bobby took a swallow and sighed happily. "I felt my soul coming up to Heaven. Then there was this…shift. No other word for it. Somewhere between yanking free of Crowley…" He looked around. "Where is that bastard?"

"Not sure," said Sam. "After we jailed Metatron, Hannah and the others made it clear he wasn't welcome, no matter how much he'd helped us, so he said 'Ta' and disappeared."

Bobby looked displeased but resigned. "Anyway, got free of him and something bright filled my eyes. Next thing I'm in the Garden with Scruffy Face and Joshua."

"Love you, too, Beard Puss," said Rufus. "Damn, you gotta wear that cap even in the Afterlife?"

Dean held back his anger from his tone. "Bobby, why didn't you contact us?"

"Cuz I was busy!"

"You were too busy to tell us you'd evolved into a demi-angel?" asked Sam, annoyed.

"You boys think y'all are the center of the universe!" snapped Rufus. "We were busy fighting on Castiel's side!"

"What?" cried Sam and Dean.

Bobby winced. "Aw, crap. I was gonna ease into that!"

"What you got to pussy-foot for? You a goddamn angel now."

"Demi-angel. Or somethin'."

Dean faced Castiel. "You _knew_ he'd come back as…whatever he is? And you didn't _tell_ us?"

Castiel came as close as he could to blushing. "I—"

"Because I told him not to!" Bobby interrupted. "You boys were busy cleanin' up crap on Earth, I didn't need you knowin' about me and getting' all sentimental and wantin' to see me. I had _work_ to do!"

"I wanted to inform you," said Cas, "but Bobby and Rufus asked me to wait until after the angel war was won. They didn't want to be distracted by you. I appreciate their dedication. There are no better warriors in Heaven. And that's without full Grace."

"Whoa," said Jesus. "You get the membership card but you don't get Grace?"

"We have _somethin_ ' of it," Bobby allowed. "Haven't quite figured it all out yet."

"Why weren't you thrown from Heaven with the rest?" Gabriel asked.

"Same reason _you_ were able to hide out in Jesus' prison. The spell didn't include here and the Garden. They're too sacred, we're guessin'."

"We felt it pass us over, because it didn't know if we was fish or fowl," said Rufus. "Joshua wasn't touched, either. When we found out what Metatron had done, we tried to get to him. We figured angels or not, we're still hunters, and this bastard's goin' down. But he was too well guarded."

"Couldn't go to Earth because we have our original bodies, and we won't inhabit another person." Bobby's expression was regretful and inwardly angry. "I would never do that again to somebody, invited or not." He looked at Gabriel and Castiel. "No offence."

"The angels might've recognized us," Rufus continued.

"We had t' sit tight, make a plan. That's when she," Bobby noticed Reynard was in fox form, tail wagging as she sat on the floor between Mary and Joseph at the table, "when _it_ called us. We didn't answer right away, it not being anything we'd ever heard directly from before."

"But I knew the lore," said Rufus. "Wasn't sure whether to trust her, him, it, cuz it's a trickster, after all."

"How'd you meet your new furry friend?" Dean asked Cas.

"I knew Metatron was as unaware of the other deities as we had been. He wouldn't have prepared a defense against something he didn't know existed. The Old World gods chose to not participate in our fight. But Reynard…Reynard is both an Old and a New world god. She's in almost all the folklore of indigenous people in North America. If Metatron had taken the Indigenous people's stories seriously he would've recognized her, but he viewed them as fairy tales. Even though Kali suggested I seek out Reynard's help, I didn't know why she would want to become involved. Until Kali reminded me that a true trickster wants to bring down big egos. Metatron's is as big as they get."

Bobby said, "When I was researching tricksters for you boys one of the creatures I thought it might be was Reynard."

"Sssh!" whispered Gabriel, glancing at the fox, whose tummy was now being rubbed by Mary and Joseph. "She doesn't know _I'm_ that _guy_. Let's keep it that way."

"I knew Metatron's seal on his office wouldn't have included an animal or a different kind of deity," said Castiel. "He and his angel guard would never notice a deity they didn't believe in calling for two souls from Heaven, unlike myself. They'd have heard me and tracked me. Reynard and I went to an old Jewish cemetery and she called Bobby and Rufus on our behalf and asked them to assist us. I knew I couldn't come to Heaven without being recognized and starting a battle that might give warning to Metatron. But these three could."

Sam sighed. "Well, we didn't manage to kill him with mean tweets."

"But you kept him distracted long enough for me to form the alliances we needed," said Cas. "Even if I could have gotten an angel blade to you, either he or his guards would have sensed its presence on a human or a demon."

"So what're you gonna do with the bastard?" Dean asked.

"Have him face justice. We've opened the stairway to Heaven to any and all who want to return. And they are, in droves. We're forming..." Castiel hesitated and looked self-conscious. "It's difficult to believe…"

Bobby said, "Me and Rufus are teachin' the others about democracy,"

"A democracy?" said Sam, astonished. "In _Heaven_?"

"One angel, one vote," Rufus confirmed.

"With a president?"

"We're still discussing it," said Cas.

Gabriel beamed. "I feel an urge to campaign coming on!"

"One of the first things you need to vote on is how to gank that evil son of a bitch," said Dean.

"We have a rule of law here, all evidence to the contrary," said Castiel. "He'll receive a fair trial."

"By a jury of his peers?" When Cas nodded Dean slapped his leg with satisfaction. "Then he's fuckin' toast. Good! I hated Lucifer but I goddamn _despise_ that asshole."

Bobby's tone was introspective. "'Course you do. Ya know why? Because Lucifer and even Crowley, as despicable as they are, got charm and charisma. Despite all the pain and wretchedness they've inflicted on people, we've always known it was because they're selfish bastards. Whether we admit it or not, we all got a soft spot for charming selfish bastards. Tiny piece in us all wants to be like that. I hate Crowley so much my _toenails_ hate him, but I hate Metatron more."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Because he's a smartass intellectual that gives smart people a bad name. It's easy to hate anyone who's wants to kill you for whatever reasons. But we really hate down to our guts a privileged guy who's trying to kill us because he thinks he's smarter than we are. Lucifer, he just plain _hates_ us. Crowley, he's a predator trying to keep his ass alive. But Metatron's _condescendin_ g. He insulted our intelligence while plagiarizing another writer – the real God – and thinks he's better than we are." Bobby took a drink and finished, "Like Judy Garland said, 'Always be a first rate version of yourself and not a second rate version of someone else.'"

They stared at him.

" _What?_ I can't like me some Judy Garland?"

Jesus was deeply saddened. "Man, what's really tragic is Dad gave Metatron the job because he _was_ a good writer. Y'know? If he'd stuck to writing for the joy of it and not for power he'd still be enjoying his books." He asked Castiel, "Uh, man, any chance you can unseal my," he made air quotes, "'room?'"

Castiel smiled apologetically. "We don't know how yet. But we have the Angel Tablet Metatron had hidden under his typewriter. It was why anything he typed became reality. Perhaps that will give us the key." To the Winchesters he suggested with sensitivity, "Now that Heaven is open once again, I believe Kevin has arrived. I'm sure he'll be happy to translate."

Dean and Sam looked at each other, with hope and disbelief.

"Are we actually catching a break?" Dean felt as he had when he and Sam discovered the Men of Letters' bunker.

"Is that even allowed?" said Sam, feeling simultaneously giddy and fearful.

"Screw it, let's take it for as long as we got it!"

Mary came into the living room. "How are you going to explain all that happened to the people of Earth?"

Gabriel grinned. "It's already done."

* * *

_dick4days: Thank you all for participating in the exciting promotion for TheLordGodMarv, a new science fiction series from the CW. Unfortunately, due to decisions from Higher Ups the series has been canceled. But each of you who contributed with Tweets, comments, posts, fan art and memes will receive a free exploding-unexploded manatee t-shirt. Fill out the form below to request size and color. NOTE: No manatees were harmed in the making of this promotion. REALLY._

_MadMupload to RalphieBoy1: swear that exploding manatee was 2 real dude_

_RalphieBoy1 to MadMupload:_ _dude they can do everything with special effects_

* * *

Dean winked at Castiel. "I'm thinking this democracy could use an interim leader."

Gabriel snapped his fingers in agreement. "You're reading my mind!"

Dean scowled at the archangel. "Read mine."

Bobby nodded at Cas. "That's what we've made him. God pro tem."

Castiel allowed, "It's been…floated as a possibility..that I might.. Well, there are things to be done. We should build alliances with the other gods." He looked at Mary and Joseph rubbing Reynard's belly. "It'll take a long time, but we've made a start."

" _You_ made the start," said Sam proudly.

Castiel shrugged it off. "Well, the manatees suggest that we—"

"Wait, _what?_ " said Dean. "The manatees?"

"Oh. Yes. They contacted me after the unfortunate explosion-unexplosion incident."

"They _contacted you_?" asked Sam. "How?"

"Sent an ibis. Ibis are sacred creatures, you know. And Douglas Adams was incorrect. The true geniuses of earth aren't mice or dolphins. They're manatees. They've reached a sort of evolutionary nirvana. They're content living a completely intellectual life—"

Gabriel laughed in disbelief. " _Intellectual?_ "

Castiel nodded. "Manatees spend their waking hours having philosophical debates. They communicate in decibels lower than the human ear can hear and human devices can sense. An individual manatee's memory could outshine the library of Alexandria. They teach by oral tradition. Pods are like underwater Oxford universities." He added enthusiastically, "Manatees discovered the theory of relativity hundreds of years ago, but being pacifists harboring no ill will toward anyone or anything they never acted upon the discovery. They are the epitome of Taoism."

Dean blinked. "You're gonna take advice from manatees?"

"Their monographs on political leadership are brilliant." Castiel paused. "One thing bothers me."

"Only one?" said Dean. When Castiel looked confused Dean cleared his throat and asked, "What?"

"We bullied."

They all exchanged looks.

"We instructed people, some of them quite young, to be vicious toward a stranger. We encouraged it, and applauded when they were especially virulent. Now they may well believe that the best way to deal with someone with whom they disagree is to abuse them. How can we justify that?"

"It was Metatron!" said Sam.

"But they didn't know that. They weren't aware of the full threat, nor of Metatron's true nature."

"They thought it was a game," said Dean. "That it was part of the promotion for a TV series."

"So they eagerly embraced the concept that cruel taunts and insults are entertainment?"

"You don't watch television?" said Dean.

Castiel looked grim. "I find it extremely disturbing. That, and our lack of acknowledgement that this was in some ways no worse than Metatron's tactics."

"Hey!"

"Dean, on both sides we decided that the end justifies the means."

Bobby sighed. "Ya see why we want him for President?"

"Unless he's too hard-assed," said Rufus.

"I get what you're saying, Cas," said Sam, sincerely. "I wish we could have thought of another way. But we didn't."

Castiel looked at the floor, dissatisfied.

Mary came over with a tray of freshly baked M&M cookies and set them on the coffee table. "Well! I guess you boys don't have anything to worry about now!"

Sam took a cookie. "Unfortunately, there's still Hell and its demons."

"There'll always be monsters, ma'am. And now we're meeting new gods we might have to deal with _their_ monsters." Dean took two cookies. "We may have opened a whole new can of worms."

Castiel hesitated, then took a cookie. "And Crowley. I hope your brief alliance didn't convince you that he's reformed."

* * *

Crowley didn't like the stink of Florida. The stench of burning and rotting flesh in Hell was nothing compared to the humid, salty fetidness of Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. Even so, he'd crammed himself and one of his best suits into the ridiculous thing called a kayak, because the yacht he wanted to use for making an impression would have attracted unwelcome attention from authorities. Apparently the creatures he was calling on hated conflicts. Apparently affluence didn't impress them, either. Crowley hoped to change that. Everything had its price, dinnit?

The King of Hell leaned over the kayak, which tipped a bit due to his shift of weight. His tie clip fell into the water, but the munching gray blobs beneath didn't notice.

"Salutations! How are we today? Name's Crowley! I have a proposition the like of which you've never heard before! How would you like to have the power to stop the pollution and over-development of your beautiful environment? To return the golf courses and theme parks back to pristine wilderness? Does that appeal to your brilliant intellects? I can help you make all of that, _and_ more, reality." No response. "Hello? I know you're not deaf!" No response. " _Oi!"_

His red carnation fell from his lapel and into the water. A manatee ate it and moved on.

THE END.


End file.
